I heard it before I saw it.
A marker pen squeaking, kids whispering, chairs rocking.
The world spun, turning upside down. I spread my arms to keep my balance, clenching my eyes tight shut, willing it to stop.
A burst of laughter rang out, and I opened my eyes.
I scanned the classroom for a familiar face, but these students . . . they weren’t in my class.
They weren’t even in my year.
The teacher narrowed his eyes at me. “Can I help you?” he said. One minute he would have been looking at his usual class, and the next I was there, staggering round like I was still half-asleep.
“S-sorry,” I said, finding my way to the door. “Wrong class.”
The corridor was empty. Everyone would be in a class.
I tried to remember where I’d been before, but everything was so vague.
Deep breaths. Take it slow. I’m back. Everything’s okay.
I opened my timetable. I was supposed to be in English.
Walking slowly to avoid the groggy wave I knew was waiting to wash over me, I found my way to B corridor. Any second, I expected Mr. Barrow, the head teacher, to walk around the corner and bust me for being out of class.
I opened the door to the English class, trying to think of an excuse for being late. The whole class stared as I stood there in the doorway. I scanned the room and found Danny sitting at the back. He frowned at me, and I could almost see the cogs whirring in his brain.
“Sorry I’m late, Miss,” I said. “I was in the nurse’s office.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Cole paused by the whiteboard, pen in hand. “I could have sworn I marked you down as present,” she said, the wrinkles on her face crumpling. “Or was it the other way around? Have . . . have you been in school all day?”
“Yeah,” I said, as nonchalantly as possible.
“How strange,” she said, staring at me for a long moment. Then she shook herself. “Okay, well, take a seat, Owen. We’re just doing some more Shakespeare.”
Normally I’d hate that sentence, but it felt so good to be called Owen again that I walked into the room feeling happier than I had in ages.
“There we go,” Mrs. Cole said, noting the look on my face. “At least one of you is showing the excitement this text deserves!”
I took a seat next to Danny and slid my textbook out of the bag. It felt odd working at such a new-looking table, one that was clean and didn’t creak like an old boat when you leaned on it.
“You were there, weren’t you?” Danny whispered.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Did it work? Did you find the plane?”
I nodded. “But I jumped back before I could take the black box to the hill.”
“What about your dad? Is he all right?”
“I don’t know. I guess I’ll find out after school.”
When I got home that afternoon, I walked slowly up to the front door. I waited there, not wanting to go in. I wasn’t scared—just nervous. I kept picturing Dad smashing up those paintings, falling to his knees in the shed surrounded by all Mum’s work. But he’d started writing again. He sent me back in. I just hoped that it hadn’t all been for nothing.
I was standing at the door for so long that Dad saw me and came to let me in.
He smiled, and it wasn’t just the half-smile, it was the nearly real smile. Relief flooded through me, and I couldn’t stop beaming even if I’d wanted to. Because it was working! The plan was working.
“No. I was just thinking.”
“About what?”
“Just stuff,” I said.
I couldn’t tell him that I was thinking about the story. About how I nearly messed up everything just because of football. Mr. Matthews is always saying we need to have a short-term memory. If you made a mistake, you forgot about it and moved on, and maybe you could do better next time. I had to put football well and truly out of my mind now.
“I’ve been writing again,” Dad said, as he let me into the entrance hall. “I thought I’d be stuck forever, but the words are flowing.”
“That’s great!” I said. Then a sudden thought hit me. “Do . . . do you know how it’s going to end?” I tried to look innocent, as if I didn’t know anything about Jack or Iris or the Darkness.
Maybe if he told me more about the story, it would help me stay alive next time I jumped in. Maybe it would help all of us stay alive . . .
“No,” he said. “To tell you the truth, I don’t. I like finding out what happens while I’m writing. But I’ll let you into a secret,” he said, leaning closer. “I think there’s a big death coming up.”
My mouth dropped open.
A death?
My heart turned into a war drum beating louder and louder. I wished I’d never asked him. I wished I could invent a time machine just to go back and punch myself for thinking that question in the first place.
“Are you okay, Owen?” Dad said. “It’s just a story.”
Yeah, just a story. A story that I was living. A story where I could get hurt—where I could die. “I’m . . . I’m fine,” I lied.
The writing may have been healing Dad, but right now it was the opposite for me. If I died in the story, what would happen to me here? Would I come back? Would I just stop existing? A tiny voice chirped up in the back of my mind, telling me not to jump. I could fight it again. I could force myself to stay here.
But I shut it down. I couldn’t stop now. I’d come too far. And anyway, maybe I would be all right. It was Dad’s story, but I was the one living it. I took a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves. I had the tracking device, and I had a plan. Seth had agreed to let me go to the tower. All I had to do was try not to die in the process.