“That sounds like magic,” I say. “You’re using the fallback of magic as your answer?”

“Not magic,” she clarifies. “Just…not yet explained.”

I’m not happy with that answer. It feels like a cop-out. Is it so hard for people to say, I don’t know? And if they actually do know, why keep it hidden?

Instead, I steer the conversation in another direction.

“Are there others like me? I mean, I got the ability to travel from David’s liver, and his other organs went to other people, right? Did they also gain the same ability?”

“David’s other organs were damaged in the accident.”

“So I’m the only one?” I ask.

“Yes, and I’m glad for it. Your passion for knowledge, your stubbornness… Those things make you an excellent time traveler.”

I’m not sure if that answer satisfies me, but it’s enough for now.

I hear Blake’s heavy footsteps before I hear his voice. He comes down the staircase and rounds the corner, now dressed in a worn Yale shirt with the Y half faded off. Casually, he walks into the kitchen and kisses his mom’s cheek. He makes all the right motions, and she responds in kind: a tilt of the head, a small smile. But everything looks and feels so…mechanical. The actions are there. The emotion is not.

“I’m making dessert, but dinner should be ready in just a few minutes. Blake, can you help Andre set the table?”

“Is Dad going to join us?”

Claire is in the middle of answering when the front door opens once again. Unlike before, though, the energy is different. Claire gives off an air of sophistication and poise. Greg, when he enters, is like a hurricane of papers and anxious energy.

“Did I miss it?”

“Still cooking, dear.”

“Oh, thank God.”

Greg lets out a breath, and the level of anxiety in the room lowers as he starts putting his things down.

“Andre.” He smiles, nodding to me. “Nice to see you again. Hey,” he says, turning to Blake. “How was your—”

Blake snorts under his breath, grabs a handful of utensils and napkins, and gives them to me, completely ignoring his father.

“You like iced tea?” he asks me. “I’m going to get the glasses. Do you know how to set the table?”

He’s tenser than he was upstairs, I think. His shoulders are tight. Is his relationship with his parents really that bad? Does just being around them feel like being close to the Elephant’s Foot of Chernobyl?

“I’m from the other side of town; I’m not uneducated.”

Blake opens his mouth to say something, probably some witty rebuttal, but instead he shuts it tight. He puts the pitcher down, with only two glasses filled.

“Call me when dinner’s ready.”