A World Without You(20)

Harold stares at me intently. Waiting.

“Do you see Sofía?”

There. I said it.

“I don’t always see,” Harold says, his eyes losing focus. “Often, I just hear. Whispers. Regrets. Whispers.”

I lean up on my knees. I want to grab Harold, force him to give me his full attention. “But do you see or hear Sofía?” I ask, my voice rising. “Maybe she’s gone, maybe what I did—” I swallow. “Maybe what I did killed her. And if it did, I know she’d come back. Here. To me. To all of us. Has she . . . do you see her? Do you hear her?”

Harold cocks his head like a cat about to pounce on a bird rustling in the grass. When he speaks, his voice is almost inaudible. “No. She is silent. She is not in the voices. She is just . . . gone.”

I sag in relief. Gone—but not so far gone that I can’t still reach her. She’s not dead. She’s okay. She’s stuck in the past behind some sort of block that’s stopping me from saving her, but she’s still alive.

“Thanks, man,” I say, standing up and smacking Harold on the knee. Harold jerks as if startled out of deep sleep by the touch. I’ll leave him to his ghosts, then. I wander over to the cushions where Gwen is sitting, using a flamethrower on the horde approaching her character on the screen.

“You should be careful what you say,” Gwen mutters, not taking her eyes off the TV.

“Huh?”

Gwen shoots me a look. “The Doctor’s not here, but he is, you know?” Her voice drops an octave. “Watching.” Her eyes flick to the corner where I had just been sitting, talking to Harold.

“I don’t under—”

“There.” Gwen’s eyes linger on the ceiling, on the almost invisible black camera lens that points at exactly the spot where I had just been sitting.

“Why is the Doctor spying on us?” I ask, shifting closer to Gwen. I scan the room and notice at least three more cameras, one in each corner, pointing down on us.

Gwen shrugs. “Don’t know. But he is.”

“It’s been like this for two weeks,” Ryan calls from the table in the center of the room, his attention still on the chess game. “They installed them after the last episode.” His eyes flick to Harold.

Three weeks ago, Harold was possessed by a malevolent spirit he’d been trying to talk into leaving him alone. He attacked Dr. Franklin. The Doc wasn’t hurt, of course—he healed himself in seconds—but I guess the director decided to add more security after that.

To be honest, I’m just relieved that the cameras weren’t installed because of my screw-up.

“It’s probably just a precaution,” I say. I can’t help but wonder, though, how the director expects cameras to keep us safe.

“Sure,” Ryan says, his tone flat. “Yeah, that’s probably all it is.”





CHAPTER 11




Sunday.

The last day of the weekend. Tomorrow, classes start again. And next weekend, I’m stuck going to my parents’ house. I have to make today count.

All right, fine, let’s approach this scientifically. I grab my notebook from my desk and make a list:

What I’ve Done Already:

? Tried to go into the past where Sofía is. Can’t get there. Utterly blocked. Powers don’t work.

? Tried to go to a few minutes before I sent Sofía to the past to stop myself. Didn’t work. Timestream blocks me from my own timeline.

? Tried to go into the past and warn Sofía not to go with me to the 1600s. Can’t get there.

Underneath the pitiful list, I add in big, bold, underlined letters: INTENT MATTERS.

Now let’s try something completely different:

Attempt 1: Go back to my own past and leave myself clues to not get Sofía stuck in the first place.

I pick another weekend when I wasn’t at Berkshire, so I can be sure not to meet my past self. But rather than go see Sofía, I stay in my room. I keep my mind as clear as possible, grab a piece of paper from my desk, and write a huge warning note to myself. I expect time to snap me back to the present, but it doesn’t. I write the note, leave it on my bed, and return.

But it obviously doesn’t work, because Sofía’s still gone and the past hasn’t changed.

I don’t remember getting any notes in the past either, so what happened?

I carefully make a mark in my calendar, noting which day I traveled to. When I turn around, my eyes fall on my bed. When I was younger, I used to hide things from my nosy little sister between the box spring and mattress of my bed. I check, and sure enough, my note is there, but I don’t know why or how.

I want to go back, I want to try again, but each weekend I travel back to creates a little divot in the timestream. The more I go back in failed attempts to leave notes, the more I run the risk of creating tangles and knots in the strings of time. If I don’t play my cards right, I’ll ruin my chances.

The universe doesn’t want me to save Sofía.

Attempt 2: Brute force.

Sofía’s vivid red string is easy to spot amid the myriad of grays and taupes and sage greens and pale blues of the other strings that represent the Berk at various different times. A lump rises in my throat as I look closely at the weave, at the way Sofía’s string knots up with mine, just before it shoots off into the black hole of 1692.