“That’s right. You were responsible,” Mom says.

“They’re gone now,” Dad repeats, hanging his head.

“And so is my son,” Mom says. Her face isn’t stony anymore. It’s melting—all tears and snot. “I’m not losing my home, too. Do you get that, Daniel? I’m not losing this house. This is our home.”

She leans back against the kitchen counter. Her shoulders tremble as her crying gets louder.

I want so badly to hug her, but I can’t bring myself to move.

Dad squeezes Mom’s shoulder, but she pushes him away. Before he leaves the room, he gives me a look that I don’t understand. I wish I did.

Even once Dad’s gone, Mom keeps crying. I can feel the jab of tears in my own eyes, but I’m not allowed to cry. I squeeze my eyes shut and picture the giant oak tree. I see its long muscled armlike branches and thick trunk with the bumpy bark. I imagine the wormhole opening up right in the center of it. A glowing door. I imagine it so hard that I think my brain might burst.

“I’m going to make things better,” I whisper. Mom doesn’t hear me, but I really hope the universe does.

Eleven

Cora

Grams waves the car keys in the air. “Come on, baby girl. We’ve got to get going. Your dad’s going to meet us there.”

Dad rearranged his whole class schedule so that he can always make my Dr. Randall appointments. I told him that wasn’t necessary—it’s not like Grams or him even go into the appointment with me—they just sit in the hall and wait for the session to be over. Sometimes they catch up with Dr. Randall after, but usually they just wave to him and we go on our way. I’d be lying though if I said knowing that Dad was sitting in the hallway wasn’t comforting to me. It feels nice to know for that forty-five minutes exactly where Grams and he are. Ever since Mabel died, I’ve spent a lot of time calculating the whereabouts of people I love. I’ve learned that no one is ever really safe, even when it seems like they should be.

That might actually be the worst thing I’ve learned, and I’ve learned a lot of terrible things.

Grams is mostly quiet on the drive, but I can tell she wants to ask me about the box. She’s doing her off-beat humming thing she does whenever she’s trying to stop herself from talking.

“I opened it,” I say with a sigh. “But you know that.”

She stops at a red light and looks at me in the rearview mirror. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You might as well have,” I mumble.

“Did you talk to her?”

“Yeah, but it’s not like we’re friends again.”

“It wouldn’t be so bad if you were.”

“Yes, it would be.”

Grams lets out a whistle-like sound. “Let’s agree to disagree, sweet pea.”