Chapters (47)
- Front Cover
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Contents
- Part One
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Part Two
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Part Three
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Acknowledgments
- Excerpt from Survive the Dome
- Prologue
- 6 Months Later
- One
- About the Author
- Back Cover
Claire sighs. “Blake. Simply because you don’t want to hear it doesn’t make it any less true. Andre has your brother’s liver. Andre can time travel—you felt it, I felt it, your father felt it. Which means that there is someone in this world who could reveal our secret, unless they have the proper training. That’s where we come in.” She takes a beat. “More accurately, that’s where you come in. Which is why I wanted you here on time.”
“What?” Blake and I both say at the exact same time.
“Why?” Blake asks.
Claire shrugs. “It’ll do you both some good. But more importantly? Your brother would have…”
“Don’t.” Blake is seething. “Don’t use him to get what you want. You don’t have the right. And more importantly?” he sneered, mimicking her tone. “There’s no way in hell I’m teaching him how to jump.”
“And who said I even believed in all this?” I add.
Blake turns to me. “Are you calling my mom a liar?”
“I didn’t say that, and just one minute ago, you wanted nothing to do with me.”
Blake takes a step forward. “I still want nothing to do with you. You’re not part of this family, and you’re certainly not my brother, so I’m not even sure why you’re here.”
“I never said I was your brother, and I’m very sorry for your loss. I’m very happy to leave, though.”
The vibe I get from Blake? From this family? It’s…uncomfortable, to say the least. It’s like something is off, a piece is missing in a puzzle, and they’re trying to compensate for it in weird ways. It’s too much weirdness right now, when I have so many other things on my plate.
Before I can respond, everything changes. And Blake is gone.
And so is the view.
And the couch.
And the whole house.
Instead, I’m standing in the living room of my own house. Well, not my house. Michael’s house. In 1969. Again. Except this time, there’s jazz playing.
“Shit!”
A loud crunch makes me jump, and I quickly spin around, only to come face-to-face with Michael and his floppy blond hair. He’s dressed only in boxers, with a bowl of cereal balanced precariously in the palm of his right hand, a spoon and a cigarette in his left, staring at me with a mix of elation and surprise.
“I feel,” Michael says, then swallows, “like I should be concerned by how you got into my house, but we’ll deal with that second. First, though…” He puts his bowl down on a stand next to a record player. “Want some cereal?”