I want answers. Now.

I tried reaching the Voice through my mind. Yelling at the top of my lungs. Even searching in my sleep for that black void outside time.

Nothing’s worked.

But there’s still one method I haven’t tried. One avenue of contact that might actually be successful. Every time the Voice has spoken to me, she’s been preceded by a zing across my brain. If I create a similar flash of electricity, will I somehow signal to my older self that I want to talk?

The idea might be completely out of left field. But I have to try.

I take a deep breath. Walk into the living room. And shuffle my socked feet across the shaggy carpet. The beige fibers are bleached in one corner, where Archie conducted one of his chemistry experiments. I circle that spot a few times, storing up loads of static electricity. And then I touch a metal doorknob.

A sharp, aching spark flies off my finger. My heart leaps. I did it! I produced a shock!

I hold my breath. Seconds pass. The space inside my lungs becomes tight and uncomfortable. But the Voice doesn’t appear.

The air whooshes out of me. Of course it’s not the same kind of electricity. Archie explained to me that static shock is created by opposite charges and a surplus of electrons. Whatever spark precedes the Voice has to be way more complicated.

But I don’t need to re-create the identical electricity, I remind myself. I just need a spark strong enough to get my older self’s attention.

I scan the room. Cords everywhere. Skinny black, medium gray, thick white. For the television, my laptop, the lamp. All disappearing into outlets hidden behind the sofa, bookshelves, and entertainment center. I wonder…

Okay, so this might actually hurt. But I’ve come this far. I can’t give up now.

Before I can change my mind, I cross the room, reach behind the sofa, and plug and unplug the laptop cord. Five times. Ten times. Looking for that elusive electric shock.

Nothing.

I sit back on my heels, thinking hard. What else? What is equivalent to jumping up and down, waving wildly at the future, screaming, Look at me! Look at me! Look at meeeeeee!

An ear-shattering crack pierces the air, pulling my attention to the window. Fat drops of rain pelt the glass in a never-ceasing drumbeat. That’s some storm out there.

Storm. As in thunder. As in lightning.

Goose bumps pop up on my arms. Every conventional wisdom on how to avoid being struck by lightning flits through my mind. I couldn’t break those rules.

Could I?