36

Corey’s head was resting on a railroad tie. He sat bolt upright in a bed of gravel between tracks, surrounded by dried weeds and grasses. Quinn and Oscar were gone, but he heard a gasp behind him. When he spun around, his face was inches away from a pair of overalls.

“Whoa, where’d you come from, bro?” Above him loomed a guy in a baseball cap, leaning on a rake. “I coulda sworn nobody was here.”

“What day is it?” Corey blurted.

“Your unlucky day,” the guy said. “Because the High Line closes at ten, and I gotta kick you out. Your parents here, too?”

“No, it’s just me.” Standing, Corey glanced around. Just ahead, a high-rise hotel straddled the tracks. A car horn sounded below him, along with bursts of laughter and pounding rap music. He was on the High Line trestle, above streets and shops and restaurants. Home. Glancing downtown, he saw no sign of the white Woolworth tower, although he knew it was there, hidden behind a dense thicket of glass skyscrapers.

Corey opened his hand. His phone was pinging notifications.

“Whoa. Dude. Look at you. Your shirt’s all ripped. Your face is cut up. What happened?” the guard said, his brow creased with concern.

“It’s a long story,” Corey replied.

“I guess so. You just stay here a minute. Don’t move.” He turned and ran in the opposite direction, ducking into a shed tucked into the side of the High Line corridor. He came out with a folded blue work shirt and a big wad of moistened paper towels. “You’re a big guy, this’ll probably fit.”

“Thanks,” Corey said. As he took off his ripped shirt, the guy ran the wet paper towels down Corey’s back. It stung, but it felt refreshing. The towel was red and mottled with pebbles when the guy pulled it away.

“Best I can do,” the guy said. “None of my business, but I think you gotta get yourself home. Can I get you a cab? It’ll be on me. As long as you don’t live in, like, Pennsylvania.”

Corey smiled. The shirt was way too baggy, but the fabric felt nice. “No thanks, I have my MetroCard. But that’s really nice of you. I’ll bring the shirt back.”

“Gift of the New York City Parks Department.” The guard smiled, and began leading him toward a locked gate. “Just don’t let them know.”

Corey nearly slept past the Ninety-Sixth Street station, but the conductor’s voice woke him just in time. As he trudged up the steps to the sidewalk, a gust of autumn air blew in from Central Park across the street.

At the top of the stairs, he kept going straight. He knew the park would feel really good right then. Going home, waking everybody up, explaining what had happened and how he’d failed to save Maria—that wouldn’t feel good.

The yellow taxis that barreled down Central Park West scared him. They looked like they were going ten times as fast as Corey remembered. The high-rises seemed ready to pounce. Even the trees seemed somehow too big. He’d only been away a short time, but the city had grown a hundred years older round him, and it would take a while for his brain to catch up. He wondered what Quinn would say about all of this. It dawned on him that she could not possibly still be alive. And that made him feel a little wobbly.

He plopped down on a park bench, watching two dogs playfully roll around on the grass. His phone pinged again in his pocket, and he decided it was probably time to answer his messages. He couldn’t pull the phone out, though, without extracting all the other junk inside—the passport, the old wallet, the bills. He set them down on the bench and scrolled through the list of messages. They were mostly from Mom, Dad, and Papou. He’d get back to them in a minute. They’d be glad he was safe and sound. But the message that caught his eye was the last one.

From Leila.

im back. where ru? pls pls pls pls answer!!!!!

With a deep breath, Corey answered her.

me too. my trip was a big FAIL. am in cp jst inside 96th. u?

He was pretty shocked when she answered in about a nanosecond.

dont move. am close by. b right there.

Corey texted her an okay, then looked at the text from Papou, sent an hour ago:

Hi! Visiting the house, believe it or not. No one knows where you went.
Hurry back, we all want to see you!

Corey smiled. Papou had returned. Which meant he may have finally come clean to Mom and Dad. At least that was one secret Corey wouldn’t have to keep.

He pocketed the phone again and reached for the pile on the park bench. The passport on top had fallen open. He lifted it and stared at the photo of his stoic-looking ancestor with the glaring eyes and walrus mustache. “Sorry we didn’t meet, old Evanthis,” he murmured. “You look like a super-fun guy.”

Tucked under the passport was the thin leather wallet that Ratboy had thrown out along with his stuff. Corey figured it was something stolen from someone else. But when he picked it up, a carefully folded-up sheet of paper fell out. Corey unfolded it to see a photo of Ratboy’s face staring out at him under the word Wanted. The first thing he noticed was that Ratboy’s real first name was Eero. The second thing were the words “Thats me!!!” scribbled proudly atop the mug shot. Under the photo was a list of aliases. Aside from Ratboy, they included Finnin Haddie, the Swede, the Snake, the Blade, and Rod the Rodent.

“Coreeeeeey!” Corey did not spin around fast enough to avoid being attacked by a flying Leila. She leaped onto the bench, tackling him to the green wooden slats and sending the wallet and flyer onto the ground. “You’re aliiiiiive! I thought you were dead!”

“So you’re showing your joy by attacking me?” Corey said.

Leila sat up, letting him go. “I can do it, Corey. It’s so crazy. I can hop like you. My aunt is a cat thing!”

“Slow down, Leila,” Corey groaned. “My back is killing me and I had a really, really bad day.”

“Okay. Okay.” Leila took a deep breath. “Auntie Flora is one of those transspeciated people, or whatever you call it. Like Smig. It turns out she passed the time-travel gene to me, the way your papou passed it to you. That happens. It doesn’t always go to sons and daughters. I didn’t believe I could do it, Corey. But when you didn’t come back, I thought you were in trouble. Or—or worse. So I had to try. Auntie Flora told me how to get to where you went—”

“Wait. Is this a joke? You went back to nine-eleven?”

“Look at me, Corey. This is not my joking face. I said I tried. But I went too early. I got there the night before.”

“But you’re not a Throwback, Leila!” Corey reminded her. “What did you think you were doing?”

“That’s my point, Corey. What was I doing? I honestly don’t know. When I got back, I felt like my brain had been put through a meat grinder. I kept trying to remember exactly what happened, but everything was mush. I know I was worried about you. I know I was thinking your mission wouldn’t work, and if it didn’t then maybe . . .” Leila turned away.

“You thought maybe I died,” Corey said softly. “In the attack.”

“Well . . . yeah. But what’s wrong with me, Corey? Why can’t I remember the details? Too traumatic?” Leila sighed and turned away. “That’s what my shrink would say.”

Corey shrugged. “I don’t know. I wish I could forget too.”

“Why?” Leila said. “What happened?”

Corey thought for a moment. How could he explain it all—the passport, the Gash, Horace Filcher and Haak’s Pawnshop, ooga-ooga boys, the Better Ridgefield Hotel, West Side cowboys, Oscar, Ratboy . . . and Quinn? How could he explain Quinn to anyone?

“Let’s go to the house,” Corey said. “Papou says he’s there. I can tell you both at the same time.” He scooped up the passport, the wallet, the flyer, and all the other random stuff that had fallen to the ground. Stuffing them into his pocket, he turned toward the exit.

“Corey?” Leila said, walking up beside him. “I have never seen you wear that shirt.”

“Yeah. My shirt ripped. I got into a fight.”

“And what’s that in your back pocket?”

“I don’t know.” Corey stopped. His hand reached around back and felt a corner of cloth. He pulled it out and brought it around front.

It was a red bandanna that smelled of kerosene.

He smiled. Taking a deep breath, he shoved it back and began heading for the exit. “It’s something a friend gave me.”