That’s the million-dollar question. Or at least, the millions-of-lives question. I lean back on Archie’s bed and look at the darkened ceiling. No glow-in-the-dark constellations for him.

Charlie and my brother met at the cocktail party, thanks to me being preoccupied with Bandit. Still, they don’t have a relationship. Not yet. And they may never have one, if Charlie doesn’t make it out of the hospital.

But what if they do? What if Charlie takes Archie under his wing? What if they research together, side by side, first as mentor and mentee and then as equals? Would Charlie entrust Archie with his life’s work? Is it possible?

Yes. I don’t know! Maybe?

I leap off the bed, tearing at the sheets and flinging off the comforter, as though there might be evidence of the future hidden here. Rational? Of course not. Can I stop the desperate frenzy of my hands? No more than I can halt the beating of my heart.

A few minutes later, I collapse on the carpet, wadding up pieces of my brother’s bedding. The mattress is naked, its sweat stains exposed, its potential secrets locked inside.

Who is Archie Sherman?

He’s the brother who once gave me a dog biscuit disguised as a cookie and then cracked up when I took a bite. He’s the boy who gamely handed over his spinning, light-up pinwheel when mine broke. He’s the guy who tore down the hall, wielding a wooden rod like a baseball bat, determined to protect me at all costs.

Who will he become?

That, I don’t know. That, I can’t answer.

Which means I’m not leaping to any conclusions. There are too many pieces of the puzzle that still don’t fit. Too many parts of the equation I can’t understand.

Resolved, I stand and leap nimbly over the crumpled-up bedding. Only one person has the answers to my questions. I’ll be waiting when—and if—she ever shows up in my brain again.

And if she doesn’t appear?

Then, I’ll just have to go looking for her.

Chapter 39

Chapter 39

A couple of evenings later, lightning flashes across the sky. Three seconds pass, and then the entire house rattles as though it’s on the San Andreas Fault line.

My dad jostles the coffeepot, spilling the dark-brown liquid onto the tile. “Toss me a towel, would you?” he asks. “I need to get back to work. Big deadline.”

I throw him a dishrag that was hanging on a cabinet hook, and he mops up the coffee. “You’re not supposed to use electronics during a storm,” I say.

But he’s already finished with the spill and walking out of the kitchen. “I’ll take my chances.” He lifts his mug jauntily as a goodbye.

“Are you going to work two days from now, too?” I call after his retreating back.