I squeeze my eyes shut and picture the giant oak tree and the wormhole that I know is there, the wormhole I just need to make appear.

The alarm stops. I open my eyes, and for a brief moment, I swear there’s a halo of light on the floor of the library.

A wormhole.

My heart leaps. I stand up so quickly that I bump my head on the edge of the bookshelf.

“Quinn!” Mrs. Euclid says. “Are you okay?”

I rub my head. When I look back at that spot on the carpet, the halo of light is gone. Disappointment wells up inside of me.

Mrs. Euclid struggles to move back the desk she’d shoved against the door. My classmates return to their seats. They keep talking about soccer games and the fall festival and math quizzes. But I can’t stop staring at the carpet.

It was there. I know it was there.

“Are you okay?” Mrs. Euclid sits down next to me. She points at my pumpkin. “That’s some impressive shading. I like the dimension on that.”

I stare down at the pumpkin I’ve drawn. It does look pretty good. It looks real. I’ve taken an image from my brain and brought it to life.

That’s never happened before. My mind whirls. I think of the light on the carpet. I think of the door appearing in the trunk of the giant oak tree. I think about fixing everything.

Thirteen

Cora

It takes me a moment to realize everyone else is getting out of their seats. The alarm is ringing, but the only thing I hear is my own heartbeat.

My lungs ache like they’re underwater. I’m gulping for air. I picture Mabel on that morning, on November 11. Did she think it was just a drill? Did they even have a lockdown?

I don’t know the answer to that. Whenever I try to imagine my sister’s last moments, my brain shuts down like a computer rebooting. It can’t go there.

“Cora,” Owen says, his voice half of a whisper. “Come on.” He motions to the supply closet where the rest of our class is headed. I know I should move, but I can’t. My legs are like lead.

Mrs. Darling, our English teacher, comes over to stand beside me. Mrs. Darling is white and has curly orange hair. Her long skirt swooshes against the classroom’s floor. It is a soothing sound. That swoosh. I focus on that.

She bends down to whisper in my ear. “It’s only a drill, Cora. It’s okay.”

I stiffly nod, but I still don’t move. I don’t even open my eyes.

“Can you please take a seat in the closet? It’s protocol.”

The classroom has gone quiet. There’s no more whispering. When I open my eyes, I realize everyone is staring at me.

The stinging terror doesn’t completely go away, but it’s joined by a chilly humiliation. The books we read for English class describe shame as feeling hot, but for me, it’s a cold emotion. Hollow and isolating.