Before you can say it, you realize she's right. You throw down your axe and take her rough, callused hand. With dizzying speed, she pulls you through the twisting halls, up stairs and escalators, past scenes of atrocities committed on and by mutents, hydras, and a deadly Medusa. 18 months later, you're at a celebratory dinner. Her first book of essays has just found a publisher. Your distracted glance falls on a bus ad out the window, an airbrushed painting of Mount Olympus overrun by snakes and snake-creatures, in the foreground of which a beaming child is biting into an ice cream sandwich. "What is an ice cream sandwich?" you almost ask, but she's gone--stepped away to "use" the restroom. You stare at the cubes swirling in your drink and wonder: "What if?"