They’ve come to a beach. The end of the world crouches on her heels.

“Draw a man,” she says.

“I can’t draw,” he says.

“All humans can draw.”

He shivers at her implication and limns a stick figure in the wet sand with his shoe. Sputtering aurorae trace it, green and purple; that startles him, despite everything, and he jumps back.

The end of the world spreads her hand and erases it. “What did that look like?”

“Another dimension,” he says sarcastically, trying to cover.

“Yes,” she murmurs. “Every abstract, every approach to the ideal, is a place where realities overlap.”