Smith and I don’t stay long in the memory, not when it becomes clear that my younger self has no intention of leaving the carousel anytime soon. Riley stays by her side—by my side— the two of them obviously close. More than close.

Brother and sister.

I can’t wrap my head around it.

Although, that’s possibly because my head is pounding.

The moment Smith’s projection ended and my consciousness returned to his room, everything around me spun so badly that, had I not already been sitting, I would have fallen over. Even now, moments later, I’m sitting here with my head in my hands, rubbing my aching temples and waiting for the pain to subside.

He mentioned there might be adverse effects. This is a small price to pay for what I just saw, for what I just learned. And besides, a headache is nothing compared to a coma.

Once I’ve recovered enough to stand, I lurch to my feet and stagger toward the door.

“Whoa, whoa, where are you going?” Smith demands, standing as well and grabbing my arm.

“I have to talk to Kael.”

“No, what you have to do is go to bed.”

“This can’t wait.” I shake off his hold and open the door. Just as I’m stepping through, I remember to pause and look back over my shoulder. “Thank you, Smith. Truly.”

What I don’t tell him is that I’ll be back soon. I have years of missing memories that I need to piece together, years of gaps in my own mind that will provide the answers I’ve been seeking for so long.

I stumble along the corridors, my head still throbbing dully but starting to ease. I only pause when I realize I have no idea where Kael’s room is, so I pull the compass from my pocket, relieved beyond belief when it lights up with my Spoken command to locate him.

A series of zigzagging lefts and rights later and I’m standing before what must be his door. Despite the lateness of the hour, just like with Smith, I don’t hesitate to knock. But unlike with Smith, Kael answers before I need to repeat the action. His dark hair is sticking up all over the place and his eyes are unfocused with sleep, but he becomes alert when he sees me standing in the hallway.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, worry threading his sleep-hoarse voice.

“Everything.”

He doesn’t repeat his question, he just opens his door wider in invitation. I step into his room, vaguely grateful that his pajamas consist of a rumpled T-shirt and long pants, with no superhero branding in sight.