It’s not a trivial observation. Hunter’s memories have a seductive depth. They cannot actually be endless, but the Inspector feels instinctively that she might, inside the recording, freeze everything and walk out on to imagined streets, explore a whole world of dreams. It can’t be so. Perhaps the false memory only extends in the direction you look, a paper-thin reality creating itself at the limit of your borrowed senses. She makes a note to ask—firmly discarding, at the same time, a vertiginous query that occurs to her a moment later: how do we know that the real universe does not also work that way?