Germ blinks at it, trying to shake off sleep. She looks at the whistle in my hands, and her eyes ask a question. There are so many answers: Wolf, and Ebb (I hope), and the Time Witch. But they all boil down to one.

“I’m going after them,” I say to her, simply.

Germ is silent for a moment, and her eyes focus.

“Me too,” she says.

I shake my head, but Germ flicks her wild hair back in annoyance, and tightens her arms around her sleeping bag.

“It’s my world too, Rosie,” she says, “even if I’m not an Oaks. And I want to fix it.”

I think of Germ obsessing over the news, the broken things in the world, and the knowledge that has gnawed at both of us: the chance we can’t forget we have. I know I’m not the only one who’s been trying to choose between doing nothing and doing something. I can’t think Germ choosing this is also her choosing me. Still, my heart flutters with warmth.

“There are ten of them plus the Time Witch,” I say. “And I mean to get through all of them.”

“Let’s get through all of them,” Germ says, her mouth closing tight. Her freckles glow brighter with her anger.

I can’t help it. I break into a smile.

We look at each other for a few moments nervously, and then I turn to the water and blow the whistle as hard as I can. And though the sound seems to drown in the wind, an answer comes at once. A stream of spouted water blows high into the air, making us stumble back on our feet.

And then comes the rise of a shape—like a hill suddenly emerging from the sea. Getting closer and closer, an enormous tail flaps against the waves—powerful and strong. We wade out to our knees, scared and excited, holding hands as the shape rises before us.

The whale stares at us with ancient eyes. It opens its enormous mouth.

I gasp. Inside his mouth is a small cozy room with a rug and chairs and two beds and a few warm blankets. It’s not the kind of thing you’d expect inside any kind of mouth, anywhere.

“I thought I’d seen it all,” Germ breathes.

“I think we’re just getting started,” I say.

We cast one last look at the bluff where my house stands. The trees and grass blow in the breeze—as if the trees are talking even to those of us who don’t know how to listen, and the whole yard is waving good-bye.

We step inside. And the whale closes its mouth as it dives into the sea… and into the past.

And the witch hunt begins.

Acknowledgments