​Unpleasant and fantastical though it was, with the fevered brain he had, there was no way to tell which parts were real and which were not. Psychics are known to have prophetic dreams. But this one never had.
   The walls of a spacious hallway are covered in computer monitors all showing that same thing; some compressed gif of blurry tortured screaming. Outside, a massive freeway splits into a hundred different lanes like ruptured blood vessels. It lays over a city as if God dropped it from the sky and it sank to the bedrock. No sidewalks. There’s a bike lane, but construction blocks most of it. The thousand cars are in total gridlock.
   More immediate and vivid images flash in his head: the pigeons are all covered in soot. The statues in central park turn to a dark tower and kneel. The lions of the library have mauled a child. Subway fares, mysteriously, have gone down.
   A wall moves closer. Possible paths are culled to a thin choice. An image:

   The psychic reaches for the glasses. Can’t touch them yet. Whatever.