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
Isobel was right. The lives of the rich are so far removed from our own that it’s like we don’t exist—or even coexist. We’re two parallel existences.
I should just walk out the door, I think. It’s my liver. I don’t owe them anything. I don’t need to be here. Time travel or not; it’s my choice.
Instinctively, I put my hand over my organ and feel the faint scar. It healed nicely, barely leaving a bump.
See, Dad had said, examining it. That’s the type of surgeon you can be. You’ve experienced firsthand how important it is to be good—no, great—at what you do. You’ll never forget this, champ. Maybe, if there’s one good thing that came out of this cancer, it’s showing you how much good you can do as a doctor.
Now those words make me sick to my stomach, like they’re rotten eggs just sitting in the pit of my bowels.
I don’t want to be a doctor.
I don’t want to be a surgeon.
Right now, I don’t know what I want to be. But I do know that I just want to be Andre, and now, for the first time in a year, I feel like I have the chance to decide what and who I want to be. And I’m certainly not going to let this weird family have any say in it.
My phone rings—loudly. The sound makes me and Claire jump. The ring is particular: shrill, loud, and unforgiving.
“That’s my VIP ringtone,” I mutter, fishing out my phone. It can only be one of three people: Isobel, Dad, or…
“My mom.”
I stare at the picture, my mom’s angular face, dark brown skin, and Afro on display, her broad face smiling contagiously back at me. She has me pulled in close, though I’m half out of the frame. She loves this picture. It’s her contact photo for me too, with her face cropped out and mine in the center.
“I need to take this.”
I don’t wait for permission because I don’t need it. Slipping out and into the kitchen, I take a breath, mentally counting how many rings I have left before it goes to voice mail, and then I pick up.
“Hey, Mom. I—”
“Get home. Now.”
What time is it? I pull my phone back to check—only 7:54. And it’s summer.
“Is everything cool? I’m just out with—”
“Andre Forrest Cobb, if you are about to lie to me right now about where you are, I swear to God I’m going to…”