23

My mind spun.

A wave of grogginess washed over me, and I steadied myself, trying not to fall over. When the rushing settled, I opened my eyes slowly, hardly daring to look. I knew these walls. I . . . I was inside my house. My real house, back in my life.

The smell of food filled my nostrils. Dad must have been cooking dinner. I closed my eyes again, waiting for Jack’s thoughts to drift away. It was so hard to think . . .

If the tower had never worked, then the whole camp had been risking their lives for nothing. What was the Marshal playing at? I knew we were duplicates, but surely he wasn’t that crazy?

Dad called me from the kitchen, but his voice was buried in the clattering and banging.

When I felt sure-footed enough to stand properly, I walked toward the doorway, thinking about last time—how he couldn’t remember where I’d been. I hesitated. How much time had I missed now? It was Thursday when I jumped. It must have been, because it was the day after the Westfield game.

Holding my breath, I dug inside my pocket for my phone. The date flashed up: Saturday.

Another day gone! Just completely vanished. I remembered playing FIFA on Thursday night, and then nothing—nothing except the story. The Dreamless. The radio call. The tower . . .

Surely this time Dad would have realized?

“Thought I’d get started on dinner,” he said, when I opened the door. “Got something big planned. Something nice.”

He winked at me and even managed a full smile again. It made his face crinkle up around the edges. He looked so much older now than he did last year. I guessed the Longest Day changed him on the outside as well as on the inside.

“Dad?” I said, the worried thoughts still bouncing around in my head. I kept thinking about the missing days. What happened to me in real life while I was inside the story? Was I still here? Did I pass out somewhere? I needed to find a way to word it, so he wouldn’t get freaked out.

“Yeah?”

“I really enjoyed kicking the ball around with you yesterday.”

“Kicking the ball?” he said. He looked up from the pan he was stirring on the hob and frowned.

“Yeah, after school. At the park.”

I knew we wouldn’t have played football at the park. We used to do it all the time, but we haven’t been for ages.

“Oh . . . um . . . yeah. Yeah,” he said slowly. “How could I have forgotten that?” He looked at me, his face creasing. “But I suppose we must have . . .”

I could tell he was struggling to put it all together. He knew we didn’t kick the ball around, just like I did. I wanted to text Danny, but we hadn’t spoken since I missed the match. So I quickly sent a message to Slogger, without caring how odd it sounded.

Was I at school yesterday?

His reply came back in a few seconds.

What are you on about? Course you were.

Then another:

Er, now you mention it, I’m not sure. Why?

Dad couldn’t remember what we did yesterday, and Slogger didn’t know I if I was at school or not. But if I had been around, they’d remember. And surely if I was unconscious, someone would see. Was it possible that . . .

That when I jumped into the story, I stopped existing in the real world?

The hairs on the back of my neck prickled.

Dad turned back to the stove. He switched the exhaust fan on and opened the window. When he moved, he didn’t shuffle in the way I’d got used to. There was life in his steps. He was humming to himself.

The writing was still helping. He was almost back to his old self. I mean, his face was still lined and tired looking, and his back never used to be that hunched, and he wasn’t exactly dancing. But he looked better.

When Dad finished cooking, he plated up the food. It was salmon with this crispy spicy coating and noodles with veg. I grabbed two empty plates and we took the meal through to the living room. I sat down, trying not to look at the urn on the mantelpiece. Dad flicked on the TV. There was nothing on, just chat shows and repeats. He cycled through the channels, then settled for an old detective drama from the seventies.

I didn’t normally watch old TV, because it looked rubbish compared to modern stuff. Dad always used to go on about classic films like Spartacus. But when he put it on, I couldn’t take it seriously. The fights looked like the ones you had with your friends when you were younger, using plastic swords and shields from the toy shop.

I didn’t mind watching this, though. It was nice just to be spending time with Dad. I took a bite of food, hesitant after the market food in the story. But it tasted amazing. I tried to remember the taste of the burgers we made, but I couldn’t. Everything was so muddled after all the jumps.

Six whole days. That was what I’d missed, living Dad’s story.

Part of me wanted to shout, “It’s not fair!” because they were hours and minutes I’d never get back. They were gone, snipped out of my life.

But an even bigger part of me wanted to keep jumping back into the story until I finished it. Because even though this situation wasn’t fair on me, it wasn’t fair on Dad either.

I might have lost days and hours and minutes, but he’d lost a year of his life like this. It was like he’d dug inside himself and only part of him was looking out at the world.

If I could help him, then everything would be worth it.

When the show ended, we stacked the plates on the coffee table and sat back, staring at the commercials. I wasn’t really listening, but it didn’t matter. It was nice just sitting there.

“We’ll do it, you know,” Dad said, out of nowhere.

I glanced across at him. He was looking up at the urn again. The afternoon sun dipped down behind the hedges outside, and where it hit the gold, it turned it a burning orange color.

“We’ll set her free. Like she wanted. Scatter her ashes over the sea.”

“I know,” I said. “I know we will, Dad.”

He attempted a smile but stopped halfway. I smiled back, but my mind was elsewhere now. I was thinking about the Darkness, thinking about the Marshal. Something still wasn’t clicking. I was sure the City was dead, and I knew Jack’s dad was still alive. But how could I contact him, without the radio tower?

I had to find a way. Maybe then, Dad would stay better. Maybe then, we could scatter Mum’s ashes over the sea and put her back into the world again, instead of just talking about it. Otherwise we’d just be going round in these circles forever.