Thanksgiving had come and gone when the machine was still living at Impossible Island. No one really cared then. They would make up for it now, preparing the grandest of feasts to send Henry off. There were, of course, the turkeys. They also had some potatoes and squash left over from Chet’s greenhouse. Wendy baked bread, and there were mushrooms to gather for stuffing. Gnarly crab apples and canned pumpkin were good enough for pie.
They cooked it all on giant charcoal grills they lugged into Town Square. Everyone pitched in, and by the afternoon they had a line of tables set with china and crystal. They giddily filled their plates, picked their seats, and toasted new beginnings.
Forgiving Martin and Henry wasn’t an issue at this point. The world had opened up and all the kids could talk about was how they were going to bring their friends and families back. As they gorged themselves, they made gift lists, annotated with addresses. The plan was they would fuel up Kid Godzilla, and Darla would drive to their old homes and bring back the magical loot. On her way, she would drop Henry and Keith wherever they wanted to go.
Keith hardly said a word during the meal. He passed the food and passed judgment with disapproving sneers and squints. The only time he spoke was when he chided Darla for trying to open up some champagne.
“You’re a little girl,” he said, grabbing the bottle from her.
“A little girl who’s driving you home,” she said, angling over to grab it back.
Keith tucked it safely under his arm. “Not so sure about that, sweetie.”
“You ever driven a monster truck before, mister?” she asked.
“I’ve driven pickups.”
“Totally different, old man,” she said. “Pickup ain’t gonna do squat on those crowded roads. And driving the Kid requires skill. You know how to take a hill without flipping? How about the difference between rolling over a minivan and an SUV? ’Cause there’s a difference, you know?”
“So where’d you learn how to drive it?” Keith asked.
“My dad.”
“Wait a sec,” Henry said. “You told us you taught yourself how to drive it.”
“That was a lil’ fib, Henry,” Darla said. “Made for a better story.”
“I’ll let you drive, ’cause my son says you can handle it,” Keith said. “But if I get to feelin’ you’re nancy-footin’ the pedals, then I’m takin’ the wheel.”
At the other end of the table sat Christianna. Sigrid did her best to introduce her sister to all the kids, but Christianna would hardly raise her head to look at anyone, let alone to say hello. The entire scene must have been terrifying for the girl, and Martin couldn’t help studying her, searching her face for an explanation for why she was who she was.
What worried him most was that she hadn’t aged at all. She had gone from being Sigrid’s older sister to being her younger one. Christianna told Sigrid that she had no memory of traveling into space or anywhere else. So again, if the theory of relativity wasn’t the answer, then what was? Martin could imagine all sorts of scenarios, but all were drawn from science fiction and fantasy books. Suspended animation. Cryogenics. Fountains of youth.
The answer couldn’t be as complicated as all that. On the island, Martin had taken apart the machine multiple times. He had examined every gear and bolt, every pedal, every piston. He understood the basic mechanics. What he had never questioned, however, was the procedure. The procedure was gospel. He and his father had practiced it so many times that it had never occurred to him to ask, “Why do we turn the crank? Why do we drop the pendulum?” And most of all, “Why do we set the Birthday Dials?” They hadn’t been moved since that morning Trent had pointed them out and Martin had set them to the Day.
Martin looked into the sky to see the first star of the evening revealing its face. The stars were the calendar of ancient man. The stars were their map. He did calculations in his head.
“No moon tonight,” Trent told him.
“What’s that?” Martin was so wrapped up in thought that he had forgotten where he was. Tiberia had been sitting next to him, but she had left to bring food to Marjorie, and in the meantime, Trent had snagged her seat.
“You pay attention to the moon and stars, so you probably already know,” Trent said as he handed him a bowl of stuffing.
“Thank you,” Martin said. “Don’t you want some first?”
“I don’t eat stuffing,” Trent explained. “Too gooey.”
“Know what you mean,” Martin said as he took another spoonful. “But I like that about it. I like that there’s always new foods for me to try.”
Trent nodded at this, then slipped in a confession. “Don’t be mad at me, but you probably already figured out that I didn’t have any luck with Lane.”
“I’m not mad,” Martin said, “but I’m sorry to hear it.” Martin had really wanted Lane to see the machine in action, if only to prove to her that all their sacrifices were finally paying off.
“I went to the school,” Trent explained. “She’s still there. She’s locked herself behind a door. Room seventeen. I talked to her, and I told her that we could bring her parents back. She said she didn’t care.”
“We can’t force her to do anything, I suppose,” Martin said.
“I care,” Trent said bluntly. “And when I was talking to her, I realized that I have something. For the machine, I mean.”
“You do?”
“My kazoo. It’s a silly thing, but it was metal and it wasn’t completely destroyed in the fire. I forgot, but Mom gave it to me when I was just a kid. Can we try it after dinner?” Trent asked.
“Darla wants to continue the party over at the movie theater. Besides, it’s getting dark and it’s probably best to wait for morning.”
“It’s my mom,” Trent said. “I’d rather see her now. She’s a doctor, you know? She might be able to help Marjorie. I can probably run the machine myself if you’re too busy. I’ve seen you do it.”
It would be cruel to make Trent wait, and Martin realized his mistake. “Not necessary,” he said. “Let’s meet at the machine around eleven. I should at least say goodbye to Henry first.”