by Megan Crewe
Win pauses. His gaze darts to the window and back, reminding me that we’re not really safe here. But he doesn’t move. “Maybe it does,” he says carefully. “If it’s like what happened to that kid, if that’s why you’re so upset, I think it matters.”
“I’m upset because someone died,” I snap before I can catch myself.
“I know,” he says. “But it seems like there’s more than that.”
“I guess.” I rub my forehead. “Do we really have time to get into this?”
“Do you really think you can handle going back out there right now?” Win asks, gesturing toward the doorway.
I look at the slice of pasture beyond the slanted door. A shiver runs through me. There’s so much that could be wrong that I can’t even see yet—
I grip the bracelet. “No,” I manage. “Okay. Noam.” I refocus my thoughts on that time, the afternoon when he ran off, the evening of worry, the growing realization over the next few weeks that he was never coming home. “When he left, I knew I should have noticed that something was wrong. If I had, maybe I could have said something that would have changed his mind. Maybe he thought I didn’t even care that he was leaving.”
“Or maybe it didn’t make a difference,” Win says. “He’d already made up his mind. I think it is like the kid in the cave. There probably wasn’t anything you could have done.”
“I had enough chances to notice,” I say. My throat is raw. I’ve never said this much about Noam to anyone, hardly even let myself think it; but now that I’ve started, it feels like I’ll choke if I don’t get it out. “I talked to him when he was walking me to our grandparents’ house after school, and I saw him answer his phone when I was getting my snack. But when he was heading out, when he told me he’d grab me something at the store and then said good-bye, I didn’t even look at him. All I cared about was a stupid TV show. Three chances, and I didn’t take the last one. I lost it, and he never came back.”
“Third time’s a charm,” Win says.
“What?” I glance up at him.
“You’ve said that before,” he says. “And three—that’s your special number. That’s the one you multiply with, when you’re upset. Right?”
Oh. “I never really thought about that. It was . . . Noam’s the one who always said that. I got it from him.”
I never thought about it because I’d been trying so hard to get past my guilt over Noam, but hearing Win put it together, it’s obvious. Three times. Three chances. A connection I never made, because I wasn’t multiplying back then. Was I even getting the wrong feelings, before Noam left? I frown, reaching back toward my first memory of wrongness. My second day of school in the first grade, less than six months later. Something about a tree in the corner of the playground. I cried through recess and couldn’t tell the teacher why.
Win said I notice the shifts because I’m more sensitive than most people. But I wasn’t always. I started noticing.
A moment flashes back to me: my five-year-old self standing in Noam’s bedroom, hands balled into fists, swearing to myself that I’ll pay more attention from now on, to everything. With the warped childish hope that it would magically compensate for whatever mistake I’d made and bring Noam back. If I could just catch every detail the way I should have that day, from then on, forever and ever . . .
“It all goes back to him,” I say, breathless. “I thought if I just paid more attention to everything around me, I could stop something that awful from happening again. And after that, the feelings started.”
And got worse. Every jab of wrongness made me more desperate to be aware, to see what was wrong, which just made me more sensitive to the shifts. I created my own dysfunction.
“If you think about it, it’s a good thing,” Win points out. “If you didn’t notice the shifts, you wouldn’t have been able to help us.”
“I know,” I say. “But it’s not good in a lot of ways too. A normal person would have been sad about that boy dying, and angry at that woman for killing him, without having a panic attack of guilt over it, right? How much danger did I put us in just now?”
And it isn’t going to stop. Every time we’ve jumped to a new era, it’s almost overwhelmed me. I lost the alarm band, our protection from the Enforcers, because of it. And after what we just saw, just the thought of Traveling anywhere else gives me a jolt of terror.
“We got out,” Win says. “We’re okay.” He checks the window. “Still okay.”
“What if it happens again?” I say. “You know it was at least partly because of us that boy died. We can’t let anyone else get hurt.”
“We’re doing the best we can,” Win says. “We’re trying to stop something horribly huge. We might not be able to avoid changing a few small things along the way, but we’re changing things for the better too.”
A life that might have led to a vast chain of other lives doesn’t feel so small to me. “We couldn’t go back, make sure he didn’t follow us . . . ?”
“The more we interfere with the locals, the more shifts we’ll end up making,” Win says. “We’d just be increasing the consequences.”
Of course. I had my chance and now it’s gone. Just like with Noam.
At least with the boy, I know exactly what happened, where things went wrong. With Noam, it’s the uncertainty that’s hardest to take. No one thought he was the type to run away. The police never managed to track him down. It was like he vanished into thin air.
My heart stops. Wait. That’s possible, isn’t it? I disappeared into thin air just hours ago, in Win’s time cloth. Why couldn’t Noam have disappeared the exact same way?
It fits so seamlessly I’m struck dumb. Maybe it really is my fault Noam left—maybe I’m the one who took him. I don’t know why I would have, but what other time traveler would think Noam was important enough to steal him away? Maybe it’ll be clear when I get there. But this is the only thing that’s made sense in twelve years of wondering. A perfect circle, beginning with Noam’s disappearance and leading me back to him again as the means of bringing him home.
“You look like you’ve had an idea,” Win says, offering a tentative smile.
I bite my lip to keep from grinning. I can do it. I already did, right? I’ll go get Noam, and bring him—somewhere safe, until I’m done Traveling with Win—and then we’ll decide what to do next.
But I have a feeling Win isn’t going to like this plan. I exhale slowly. I don’t have to ask for it all at once. I can just ask for the favor I was already thinking of when I first saw how far his time cloth could take us.
“I want to see my brother,” I say. “I want to go back to the day he ran away. So I know for sure what happened.”
Win’s smile falls. “Won’t that make you feel worse?”
“No. I think it’ll actually help me cope better. The not knowing, that’s what really messed with my head.” And once we’re there, Win will go along with whatever I do. Because Noam’s already disappeared, so he must. Right?
“I don’t know,” Win starts.
“I don’t want long,” I say, breaking in. “I’ve done everything you’ve asked me to do so far. I’m just asking you for this one thing.”
“But, Jeanant . . .” He lifts the flap of his satchel to look at the two slabs now wedged inside. “You did talk to him? What about the rest of the weapon? What did he say we should do?”
“He told me where we need to go,” I say. Where the trees were laid low. Presumably the message on the second slab will fill in the rest. My fingers drift up to the hem of Jeanant’s cloak. He understood how hard this journey has been for me. I think he’d see why I need to do this. If finally knowing Noam’s okay will mean I can help Win finish this mission without another breakdown, it’s better for everyone.
Win’s watching my hand on the cloak. “He gave you that,” he says. It’s hard to tell whether he means it as a statem
ent or a question.
“I was cold,” I say. “He said I needed it more than he did. Look, Win, even if you don’t get why this is important to me, can’t you just believe me that it is? If you want me to be your tool, I’ll do a lot better job if I’m sane.”
His shoulders stiffen. He gives the window one last glance. “You don’t have to say it like that,” he says, his voice rough. “We’ll go. It’s only fair. What’s the date?”
20.
Win has the time cloth set us down several blocks from my grandparents’ house, to give us some distance if the Enforcers trace the jump. We hurry out into a chilly Friday afternoon in early March, three months before my sixth birthday. Other than the smattering of snowflakes drifting down around us, nothing’s moving. It feels as if I’ve stepped into a memory where the world is frozen, immutable.
Five-year-old me will have just sat down at the kitchen table while my grandmother pours me a glass of apple juice. Noam will have ducked into the spare bedroom with his cell phone. In about five more minutes, I’ll be curled up on the couch watching cartoon antics while he heads out past the faded blue door, and never returns.
But he will. I just have to make it happen.
Win’s staring up at the sky, blinking as errant snowflakes stick to his eyelashes. His mouth has curled into a wondering smile. No snow on a space station either. I let him meander, picking up my pace as we turn onto my grandparents’ street. Only three short blocks away now. It’s hard to believe Noam’s so close, after so long.
“Wait—Skylar!” Win says, but I keep walking. This time it’s my mission, not—
Smack. The sensation crashes into me from head to toe, like I’ve slammed into a concrete wall—or a concrete wall speeding at two hundred miles an hour has slammed into me. I stumble, my forehead aching and my ears ringing, every joint shuddering as if I’ve jolted a dozen funny bones all over my body at the same time. The startled noise I make sticks in my throat. I press my hand against the side of my head, my nerves jangling, fighting to stay upright.
My eyes creep open, and my balance wavers. Where am I? This isn’t— No, wait, it’s the right street. Just . . . a few blocks more distant than I was a moment ago. There’s Win, somehow ahead of me, jogging back toward me.
The word comes to me: doxed. So this is what it feels like. I don’t want to do that again. Tiny pricks of pain are still sparking in the strangest places: the roots of my teeth, the bases of my fingernails. Fixing my consciousness in the still, cold world. This isn’t just a memory. This is a real place, a real present, even if it’s one that’s also my past.
“I tried to tell you,” Win says as he reaches me, panting.
“Yeah,” I say, rubbing the last of the tingles from my arms under Jeanant’s cloak. “I wasn’t thinking. I’ve gotten used to not having one of your ‘bubbles.’ ”
“Your younger self is in that house, isn’t she?” Win says. “Meeting yourself is the biggest paradox there is.”
“Well, let’s get back there, as close as we can,” I say. “Noam will leave soon, and I don’t know which way he’s going to go.”
We’re almost at the spot where I was doxed when a figure emerges onto the sidewalk up ahead. A figure in black jeans and a navy hooded jacket I recognize immediately. He veers across the street toward us, taking the usual route to the convenience store. Well, if I’m right, he never intended to go anywhere else.
Noam turns the corner, too close to the house for me to follow him directly. I’ll have to cut him off farther down. “We’ll go around,” I say to Win, and lope over to the street parallel to the one Noam’s on. As I jog on, Win quickly falls behind, his breath ragged. That’s fine. It means he’ll have less chance to interfere.
I round the block. A moment later, Noam comes into view up ahead. I slow to a brisk walk.
“Noam!”
He flinches before he turns around. Which is weird, but I don’t have time to wonder about it, because in that time I’ve covered the last short distance between us, and I’m staring at my brother’s face for the first time in twelve years.
He looks oddly young. I’m the same height as him, a disorienting perspective, and I don’t remember quite so many freckles marking his pale skin, or the way he cocks his head as if trying to give the impression of toughness. But it’s really him. I have to restrain myself from reaching to touch him.
“Yeah?” he says, his brow knitting.
I open my mouth, and stop. For some reason I thought the right words would come to me in the moment. Because they must have before. Instead, I’m tongue-tied. Win’s footsteps thud around the corner behind me. I have to spit something out before he messes this up.
“Noam,” I say, “this is going to be hard to understand, but I need you to listen to me. It’s me. I’m—”
The second I try to voice my name, my throat contracts and my lungs clench, as if all the air has been sucked out of the space around me. A sharp prickling races along my jaw and down my chest. I gasp, and snap my mouth shut.
Noam’s eyes dart away from me and back again. “Are you okay? Who are you?”
I suck in a breath. “I know this’ll sound crazy, but I’m—”
The feeling shocks through me again, my bones wobbling with it, and this time I know without a doubt that if I push just a smidgeon farther, I’ll find myself doxed across the city. Damn it, damn it, damn it.
“Hey!” Win rasps, almost here, and I blurt out the first thing that pops into my head.
“Don’t go, Noam. Don’t run away. If you come with me, I can make sure everything’s all right.”
His stare becomes incredulous. “What are you talking about?” he says. “Why would I run away? Who the hell are you?”
“Sorry,” Win forces out as he catches up, grabbing me by the elbow. “She doesn’t know what she’s saying—she’s not well. You go on ahead with whatever you were doing.”
He starts to drag me away, and the protest bursts from my lips automatically. “No! Noam—you have to see—” My fingers fumble before I manage to open my purse. “Look!”
I hold out the bracelet. Noam was already starting to walk away, but he stopped at my movement. He’s looking at it.
“You recognize the beads, don’t you?” I say. “I had to restring them, but they’re still the same.”
The words have barely left my mouth before Win’s wrenched my hand back. “That’s enough,” he says in a low voice. And then, louder, for Noam’s benefit, “You need to stop bothering this guy. Come on, it’s time to go.”
Noam’s gaze lifts to meet mine, and just for an instant, I see something like recognition in his eyes.
Then he’s shaking his head. “I don’t know what’s going on with you two, but I can’t deal with this right now. I’m sorry.” Gripping the strap of his knapsack, he rushes across the street.
I move to run after him, and Win’s hand tightens around my elbow. I spin around to face him.
“What are you doing?” he says before I can speak. “Weren’t you just complaining about changing the past? What do you think’s going to happen when you’re talking to your brother like that?”
“I’m not trying to change anything,” I say. “I’m trying to do what must have already happened. You heard him. He isn’t going to run away. I must have taken him somewhere. With you, in the time cloth.”
Win blinks at me, and suddenly the logic that made perfect sense to me minutes ago seems shaky. His expression softens into what looks like pity. My gut twists.
“It doesn’t work like that, Skylar,” he says. “Haven’t you seen? You can’t feel the effects of a shift you haven’t created yet. If there was a time when your brother hadn’t disappeared, because you weren’t going to meet me for twelve more years, we wouldn’t have met in the first place, because you wouldn’t have been noticing shifts and I wouldn’t have noticed you. So you
couldn’t have taken him away. He’s always been gone.”
“But . . .” He releases my arm, and I rub my forehead. Noam is hurrying out of view, still headed toward the store. I can’t let him get too far out of my sight. I start to walk after him. Win sticks close by my side.
“It doesn’t ever work that way?” I say weakly. “You never see something because of a change you’re going to make later?”
“The idea that time is static and anything that’s going to happen has already happened—it’s a nice thought,” Win says. “But it’s from your movies and books, not actual science. If it were really that way, there wouldn’t be any shifts for you to sense, because everything would always have been the same.”
I understand what he’s saying, logically. But the idea that Noam disappeared through time with me felt so right. And just now, he sounded like he honestly had no idea why I’d accuse him of being about to run away.
“You knew you were going to do this when you convinced me to bring you here,” Win says. “But you didn’t tell me.”
“Like that’s so different from all the things you didn’t bother to tell me before whisking me across hundreds of years?” I respond.
He scowls at me. “At least I knew what I was doing.”
“Yeah, well . . .” My annoyance fades as quickly as it rose up. He has a point. I just don’t want to admit it. “He’s my brother. I’ve spent all this time wondering where he is, beating myself up for missing the signs—I thought I saw a chance to sort it all out, so I took it. I still don’t understand. If I don’t take him away, and he didn’t mean to leave . . . what happened to him?”
Win sighs. “Look,” he says as we reach the commercial strip with the convenience store on the corner. “I have a brother too. If he disappeared, and I didn’t know how or why . . . I don’t think I’d deal so well with that either. We’re here now. The plan was supposed to be to find out what happens to him. I take it you still want to?”