There could be a million trillion Rosalind Luteces in the world, none of which are his Rosalind. Confirmation of her existence is reassuring, certainly, but no guarantee that whatever's become of him, Rosalind has met a similar fate. Is she also candy, somewhere? Candy, as his new cigarette friend had with such vulgarity put it, with tits?

None of this makes sense. Robert puts a hand to his head wearily and hums a familiar old tune (which Smecker may be able to pick out as a bastardized, calliope form of a song he knows, if he listens closely) to himself. Music's always steadied him through quantum cognitive dissonance.

It's a moment before his mind settles down enough to make use of any of the cigarette man's information. "Why did you assume I was Rosalind?"

Perhaps she, too, looks like a licorice abomination in gummy pantaloons.