Jane walked until 4th Avenue turned into a neighborhood she recognized. The geography was mostly correct here, even if the street suffixes were wrong.

  She stopped in front of a coffee shop. In her world, it was called “Bean There.” Here, it was called “The Daily Grind.” But the font on the awning was the same. The smell of roasted Arabica was the same.

  She needed a win. Not a solution. Just a human interaction that didn’t end in policy language or a countdown.

  She looked through the window.

  Sitting at a corner table, nursing a latte, was Ben.

  Jane’s chest loosened. Ben.

  Ben was safe. Ben was an old friend from her junior designer days. They had trauma-bonded over a boss who threw staplers. Ben was cynical, funny, and low-maintenance.

  She checked the tablet. 80%.

  She pushed the door open. A bell chimed.

  She walked up to the table.

  “Ben,” she said.

  He looked up. He blinked. Then his face split into a wide, genuine grin.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Jane Tennant!” he said. “Holy shit. I thought you were dead.”

  Jane froze for a fraction of a second. “What?”

  “I haven’t seen you in like six months,” Ben said, already pulling out the chair opposite him. “Sit down. You look intense. Like you’re on a quest.”

  Jane sat.

  “The quest is caffeine,” she said. “And sanity.”

  “I can help with one of those,” Ben said. He flagged a barista. “Drip coffee. Black. She hates joy.”

  Jane laughed. A real laugh. It surprised her.

  “You remember,” she said.

  “I remember everything,” Ben said. “Stapler incident. Tequila incident.”

  “We don’t talk about the tequila incident.”

  “We talk about it exclusively.”

  The rhythm was perfect. No lag. No friction. They slotted into old grooves like nothing had changed.

  Jane slid her bag under the table. She didn’t check the screen.

  They talked. Work. Fonts. Clients who didn’t know what they wanted but knew they hated it.

  Jane felt the tension bleed out of her shoulders.

  Narrator: Jane stopped monitoring the countdown. She assumed that because the conversation was effortless, it was free. The Unit continued to expend power at the standard rate to keep her anchored to the chair.

  Forty minutes passed.

  Jane leaned forward. “So. How’s your sister? Portland. Blue hair. Did she ever pay you back for the sink?”

  Ben paused.

  “My sister?” he said.

  “Yeah. The dye incident. We scrubbed for hours.”

  Ben set his cup down.

  “Jane,” he said carefully. “My sister lives in Chicago. She’s an actuary. She’s never dyed her hair.”

  The warmth drained out of the space between them.

  “No,” Jane said. “You’re mixing her up with—”

  “I’m not,” Ben said. Not defensive. Just confused. “I think you are.”

  Jane stared at him.

  She remembered the bleach. The joke about murdering a muppet. The smell.

  But those memories didn’t belong to this Ben.

  “I’m sorry,” Jane said quickly. “Long week.”

  Ben smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. Sounds like it.”

  Jane glanced at the tablet.

  79%.

  She stood.

  “I’ve got to go,” she said. “Meeting.”

  “Already?”

  “Omni-X,” she said. “Villain corporation.”

  Ben laughed, uncertain. “Call me?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “For real.”

  She walked out.

  The bell chimed.

  Outside, the sun was too low for the time of day.

  Narrator: Jane realized the cruelest part of the drift wasn’t strangers. It was people who looked exactly like her friends, but had different memories behind their eyes.

  She checked the tablet again.

  79%.

  She had spent nearly an hour of her life buying comfort that didn’t belong to her.

  REFRAME

  Jane thought she was paying for relief.

  She bought a counterfeit.