I give him a wave. This might be the last time I ever see him because if I find the wormhole, I’m going to be living in a world where I don’t need to see Dr. Randall anymore. That thought makes my heart soar. I give him a big smile. I want him to know how much he helped me.

“Goodbye,” I say as I walk out of his office

Twenty-Two

Quinn

Dear Parker,

What happened to your friends? Joe and Anderson and the others? They used to sometimes come over to our house. I can’t really remember the last time I saw them. It wasn’t something I thought a lot about, until it happened.

Did you guys stop being friends before you did it? You seemed so alone that whole fall. I could tell you were lonely, but I didn’t know what to do. After it happened, no one said they were your friend. I don’t blame them.

I didn’t want to be your sister either.

But I also wanted you back.

That doesn’t make much sense. None of it makes sense.

Your sister,

Quinn

By the time I reach home, I’m soaked.

“Quinn,” Mom says, greeting me right when I come in the door. “Are you okay? Where have you been?”

My shoes leak muddy water onto the freshly mopped floor. “Just walking home.”

Mom takes my wet jacket from me. “I could’ve picked you up.”

The smell of something warm and buttery wafts through the air. I turn my face to the kitchen. “What are you making?”

“Pies!” Mom says. “Come see!”

In the kitchen, there are five different pies cooling on the island. Patsy Cline is crooning on the speakers and there are about a dozen mixing bowls in the sink.

“Wow. You’ve been busy.”

Mom gives me a smile, and it’s a real one. Not her lemony one, but an expression that looks as sweet as the cooling pies. “Well, I got it in my head today. I was thinking about how lovely it would be to open up my own bakery. And then the more I thought about it, I was thinking that shop could feature pies specifically. Of course, we’d have other items, but pies would be the main attraction. And then I was like, ‘I should make some to see if I could do it.’”

I stand on my tip toes to get a better look at one of the pies. The golden-brown top has an elaborate crisscross pattern. I don’t know what the proper name is for that technique. “You want to open a pie shop?

Mom plays with the back string of her apron. “Well, maybe.”

“Does that mean we’d move? Like Dad wants to?”

Mom’s sugary smile disappears. “What? No. Why would you say that?”

“Because . . .” I can feel everything I’ve been trapping inside of me slosh, like the way you feel when you’ve drunk too much water too quickly and it slides all around your rib cage.