As Cora shouts, I swear I can hear the sound of my own heart cracking—a sharp snap, right down the center.

I know I should stay. I should hold my ground. Because if I run away, I become the lying coward Cora thinks I am.

But I can’t stand the way Cora is looking at me—a mix of disappointment and anger, like I’m the worst person in the whole world, like I’m a monster.

And I know that she’s right.

I turn and run away. I run away from her, but really I wish I could run away from me. Once I’m out of sight, I finally let the tears stream down my face.

Twenty-Nine

Cora

Dad finds me at the kitchen table. I came down for a snack, and I’ve been staring at the same page of my time-travel research notebook for what feels like a whole century. No matter how long I stare, I still can’t figure out what I’m missing.

Wormhole. Exotic matter. Point A to point B.

My eyes begin to cross, and two more words sneak in: Quinn McCauley. I quickly push that thought away, though. I’m not going to waste time on Quinn’s betrayal. I’ve wasted enough time on her.

I won’t let myself be upset. I just won’t. She’s not worth it.

Good scientists do not let themselves get distracted by speed bumps. All experiments experience setbacks.

I’ve been dedicating all my time to this. I’ve skipped Quiz Bowl practice, and I’ve even missed a couple of homework assignments. But in the end, I know it will be worth it.

“What are you working on there, kiddo?” Dad sits across from me. He unwraps a granola bar and takes a big bite. Dad and I are both granola-bar people. Grams can’t stand granola bars as a subspecies of snack, but I think Dad and I are on the right side of history when it comes to this particular preference. Science will someday prove us right.

I take the last bite of my granola bar and move my notebook away so he can’t read my notes.

His eyebrows arch up. “Secret project?”

I shrug. “Not really.”

He chews and gives me a toothy smile. “Well, I have something for you.” He does a goofy dramatic twist and pulls out something from behind his back. It’s a slender book. He slides it across the table to me.

I pick it up and read the cover. The book is called The Prophet. It’s by a guy named Kahlil Gibran. I flip the book over. “What is this?”

“A book of poetry.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Poetry?”

Dad and I are not poetry people. I don’t think Grams is, but I don’t really know. She might be. Generally speaking, she has a higher tolerance for that type of thing.

“Kahlil Gibran is Lebanese. This was one of my favorite books when I was growing up.”

“You liked a book of poems?”