It was still agony to stand, but I could still see the breadth of time stretching to either side, could still choose my moment, as they had chosen for me when they delivered me from my death on the Demiurge, selecting another Hadrian—a potential Hadrian—from one of those failed narratives. They had traded the Hadrian who died for another Hadrian. For one still living. For one identical to the man who’d died in all but one respect: I had lost the other arm. For me.
