"I once saw a guy who had been gone for a month before he was pulled back through the Daze," Patrick mused out loud as he glanced at the display implanted on the back of his right hand. The gesture had become something of a nervous tick for him over the last few days. "There wasn't even enough left of him to fill a cardboard box."

Patrick's brother, Dwayne, shivered. "It's only been twelve days since we came upstream." He stretched out on the floor and relaxed, pillowing his head on his hands as he stared up at the fluorescent lights in the ceiling.

"Five's the cut-off date, you know that. And you heard what Lincoln said." Patrick shook his head and reached inside his jumpsuit to pull out a cigar -- his last. Slowly, ritualistically, he sheared off the end with a pair of stainless-steel clippers and put the cigar in his mouth, rolling it around for a moment to get the taste. Then he sighed and leaned back against the wall, considering the small storeroom they sat in again.

A mass of crates blocked the door's entrance firmly -- protection against being discovered before they were brought back through the Daze. They had stacked the crates there over a week ago. The food had run out yesterday, but one of the crates had held bottled water that kept them alive, if uncomfortably, as well as providing them with containers for their waste.

"They tell you five," Dwayne said slowly, "but who knows how long you can really stay? Five days is probably shorter than the real cut-off date, to give agents a safety margin. Want a light for your cigar?"

Patrick shook his head. "Going to make this one last; no sense in smoking..." his voice abruptly stopped as he felt the familiar, long-awaited sensation come over him.

"See you on the other side," Dwayne said, fear tinging his voice.

Patrick balled his hands up into tight little fists and waited for the transfer downstream to take him. He tried hard not to wonder if he'd make it in one piece.

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