We’re here,’ the Clock says. The Perfectionist opens her eyes. She sees nothing. It’s white. All white. There’s no up. There’s no down. No horizon. Nothing. It’s just white. ‘Clock, what is this?’ asks the Perfectionist. Her voice is shaky. ‘This is the future.’ ‘This is the future?’ the Perfectionist asks. Her mouth is dry. She forces herself to swallow. ‘Why is the future like this?’ ‘Because it hasn’t happened yet,’ says the Clock