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temple. The tag of his sweatshirt looked like a miniature bib, or a priest’s collar. Phil cupped my cheek, index finger to my temple, and I closed my eyes, reaching for the funky marsh smell and the idiot taste of root beer.
    My Garden manifested around us, featureless and undifferentiated in all directions save one.
    â€œInteresting,” Ramon muttered, moving toward the solitary shadow a few feet away. “A hole on the zaxis. A hole in
When
.”
    â€œYeah,” I said.
    Phil was counting again.
    â€œPerhaps the problem stems from the extraordinary distance between the
Whens
of then and now.” A tiny smile shadowed Ramon’shurriedly lipsticked mouth. “Or perhaps from the space between the
Who
you were and who you are.”
    â€œHow about
Where?
” Phil asked.
    â€œIf Ren went as far as I suspect, even the land and water masses were different.”
    â€œWhat’s that, Lassie?” I joked.“Ren fell down the mindshaft? We’d better get help!”
    Phil didn’t smile and Ramon didn’t notice.
    â€œWe don’t have to find the memory, just the part of Ren trapped by it.” Ramon’s arm caught Phil across the chest. “Don’t.”
    â€œI’ll jump in and bring her out.”
    â€œThat is (a) irrational—we don’t know why she got stuck; and (b) reckless—this isn’t your Garden; the limits of her imagination limit you.”
    â€œYeah,” I said. “And I rode the symbol down like an elevator. I don’t think you should jump.”
    Ramon hadn’t said so, but I knew I’d been irrational and reckless too—greedy to turn my deficits and Phil’s guilt into something sweet for us all.
    â€œWhat if you made another symbol?” Phil asked.
    Ramon shook his head. “I think we’d have the same problem: too much too fast.”
    â€œHang on.” I closed my eyes, concentrating hard. Back to basics.
When
, Phil had told me in helping me find my Garden for the first time, usually ran up and down. Usually. I concentrated and Phil stumbled beside me. Ramon whistled. I opened my eyes, but nothing looked different.
    â€œWhat did you just do?” Phil looked dizzy.
    â€œShe turned the axes,” Ramon marveled. “Time now runs ahead and behind, or to the left and right of us.”
    â€œSo where’s the hole?” I asked.
    â€œAn absence below makes a hole,” Phil figured. “A absence ahead is a vista.”
    â€œNo buena vista,” I observed.
    Ramon ignored me. “Try picking a point a little bit ahead of you.”
    â€œThere’s no point.”
    Phil turned sharply, but I shook my head. “I don’t mean like that. One point of mud looks like every other point.”
    â€œPick an arbitrary one and focus.” Phil’s voice stayed steady, but it was the steady of a man on a surfboard, not a floor. “Do you know what the mud over there is?”
    â€œSame as the stuff under our feet,” I said. “Until I get rid of the extraneous stuff, it isn’t anything. It’s everything.”
    â€œCan you bring it closer?”
    I nodded, already trying. Nothing happened. My Garden stayed exactly the same muddy mess. “Don’t force it,” Phil whispered. “It’s not a willpower thing.”
    â€œYeah,” I said. “I know. Willpower I’ve got.”
    â€œImagine it.”
    â€œI’m not very good at pretend.”
    â€œNot pretend,” Ramon corrected. “Make believe.”
    I refocused on the distant point, made it closer, and believed it.
    â€œRen.” Phil pointed at a mound in the mud, grinning. “Do it again.”
    I did, and time ran like a tablecloth wrinkle before smoothing fingers to pile up at our feet.
    â€œBut this is too little too slow,” I said. “I’ve heaped up maybe a couple of years here. By the time we’ve raked up just the Celeste years,