The screen went black. Then, softly, the whir of a projector.

She typed: The Wizard of Oz .

Sarah closed the lid, walked to her window, and watched the sun rise over a real city, with real people, all living one imperfect, unrewindable movie of their own.

She was no longer in her apartment.

She spent the remaining time not fixing anything—just sitting with him, handing him tools, helping him lower the illusion gently. When the balloon launched without Dorothy, and the man said, “I don’t know how it works, either,” she laughed with him.

She woke on her couch. The laptop was dark. The domain registration had expired.