“What’s going on?” Mothball repeated. “I’ll tell ya what’s going on. The little sir did it, he did. Solved Master George’s riddles, made it quite nicely. Got lots of learnin’ to do now, ya do. Hope yer mind’s still got some empty spots.”

Tick couldn’t shake the sick feeling in his stomach. “Mothball, why does this grave have my name on it? Who’s that crazy guy living in my house? Where is my family?” His voice broke on that last word, and he suddenly wondered if he really wanted to know the answer.

“One question at a time, if yer wantin’ any answers.” She pointed down at the tombstone. “There’s a fine reason that there piece of rock has yer name on it.” She paused. “Yer dead here, little sir. Dead as a mouse that’s got no heart, you are. Smell worse than Rutger’s feet I’d wager.” She offered Tick a smile, but he was in no mood to laugh.

“What are you talking about? How can I be . . . dead? I’m standing here talking to you.”

“I take it back, then. Yer Alterant is dead—that’s what I meant.” Mothball sighed and fidgeted, looking as uncomfortable as a vampire in a cathedral.

“An Alter-what? Mothball, please just tell me what’s going on.”

Mothball stepped closer to Tick, put one of her huge arms around his shoulder. Her flashlight was pointed at the ground, but it still illuminated her face enough to show creases of concern in her temples and brow, her eyes full of something indescribable—sorrow or compassion. “Perk yer ears, Master Tick, methinks I need to tell ya something.”

Tick stared up at her, waiting. “What is it?”

“Life’s a bit harder than you’ve ever known, it is. Different, too. When ya finally meet Master George, yer going to learn things that’d be a mighty bit hard for a grown-up to hear, much less a young’un like yourself. How it all works—the whys and hows and whatnot—better be leaving to me boss, I will. But I can tell ya one thing before we shove off.” She paused, looking away from Tick into the darkness of the graveyard.

“Yeah?” Tick prodded.

“This . . . place. If things had been different for you, Tick—if different choices had been chosen, different paths taken—well, that really could be yer little self under this here pile of dirt. This version of the world is fragmented, as Master George calls it. It’s weak, splintering, fading. All words I don’t use much, I’ll admit it. But we wanted ya to see it, to feel what it’s like to see yer own self dead as a stump.”

Tick shook his head. “But I don’t get it, Mothball. Are you saying this is another version of our world? That I did something here that ended up with me dead?”