But for finding wormholes, there still isn’t a scientific consensus. Some scientists recommend somewhere ancient (like Stonehenge in England, and that’s out of the question for obvious reasons). Other scientists recommend somewhere familiar to you. And almost all the scientists use the term “exotic matter.”

They say that’s what you need to look for. That it’s “exotic matter” that will open up the wormhole. The problem is, I can’t get a precise definition of exactly what “exotic matter” is. It seems like something as made up as a “gut feeling” or “intuition.”

So I guess that’s why I agreed to follow Quinn’s “intuition” about the giant oak tree.

I still have Junior Quiz Bowl practice on Mondays and Wednesdays and our meets on Thursdays, but every afternoon that I’m not busy, I’ve met Quinn in the woods. We’ve been working nearly constantly for two weeks. It’s mid-October now, and the leaves have turned from silky green to leathery orange.

The change in color bothers me. It’s a reminder that time is passing. That the wormhole is getting more and more difficult to find every day. Plus, when the leaves fall, they start to smell rotten. And they get muddy.

I’m what Grams calls an “indoor person.” She used to ask me to help out in the garden, and I hated it. I don’t like the feeling of dirt under my fingernails. Yuck.

So I’m trying my best to ignore the smell and mud as I sit on the ground by the trunk of the giant oak tree. Quinn and I are sitting back-to-back with our spines pressed up against one another.

When we were younger, me and Quinn would sit like this when she slept over in my house. I’d tell her about how chalk is made from microscopic plankton fossils (an awesome science fact if I do say so myself) and she’d tell me silly jokes she’d found on Popsicle sticks.

When we’re sitting like this and I feel the bony, bumpy outline of her spine, it’s like we’re seven years old again. But we aren’t seven years old. And we aren’t swapping facts and jokes.

“He changed,” Quinn says.

Recently, whenever I ask her about Parker, this is what she says.

“I know,” I insist. “But how? Specifics are important.”

She’s quiet. I can’t see her face, so I don’t know if she’s blinking.

“Like, tell me exactly how he changed,” I add.

“I know what specifics are.”

“It’s just you were quiet.”

“I was thinking. Not everyone thinks as fast as you.” She squirms, and I press back against her harder. I don’t want her to stand up. The realization of that surprises me, and I squeeze my hands together.

“Sorry,” I say as gently as I can.

A wind blows through the forest. In all the books I’m assigned for English class, the wind is always described as a “howl” but I don’t think that’s the right word. A howl is a purposeful sound. It’s a cry for help.