Relational database analysis. I had never even heard those words until Dad comes home from the lab and starts making dinner on Wednesday. He’s got my invisible hands busy chopping celery and carrots while he cuts up chunks of chicken for a big pot of soup, and he’s gushing about his talk with Dr. Van Dorn. The professor says he was sure the blanket was part of the cause, and he’s all excited because he says he can do tons of research just using those two dates and the two locations. And that’s because of this relational database thing.
Condensing fifteen minutes of Dad talking as fast as he can into about four sentences, this kind of data-hunting is basically like using an Internet search engine, except it’s more precise and it uses monster computer power—like Cray supercomputers, the real deal. So you load in your data, you give the search program some clues about what sort of results you’d like it to look for, and then you push a button. And it combs all these scientific articles and catalogs of events and phenomena and facts and theories, and if anything matches up anywhere in the scientific records in any language anywhere in the world, it finds it and spits it all back at you. Pretty cool. But you have to know how to program the thing, or else you get swamped with junk data. And who’s one of the top people at doing this kind of search? Our pal Dr. Van Dorn.
And an hour and a half later, when we’re just sitting down to eat homemade chicken noodle soup, the doc himself is pounding on our front door.
He walks right in, puts his old briefcase on the dining room table, yanks it open, and pulls out a stack of wide greenbar computer paper. His eyes are wild, and he’s talking so fast that little bits of spit are flying around. “This has got to be what we’re looking for! I ran the search four different ways, four different sets of parameters, and the same data from the ACE spacecraft project kept showing up. Ready? Solar wind! January twelfth and February twenty-third, three years apart, and on both dates the upper latitudes of the U.S. from the Rockies to the Great Lakes were strafed by a major burst of accelerated solar particles and radiation—the kind that knock out power grids and send the big jets diving for lower altitudes! Not true solar maxima or anything, but the bombardment on both dates was way, way up on the scale, and the earth’s magnetic field was significantly distorted. So…”
Dad is looking over the professor’s shoulder, nodding, his dinner napkin still tucked into the collar of his blue dress shirt. “So this blast of high-energy particles cuts through the exaggerated electrical field caused by the faulty blanket controller, and bingo! No more Bobby!”
“Exactly. And of course, we don’t really know how or why, and we’re a long way from really understanding the interaction of the forces. But I’m almost certain we know roughly what caused it. We’ve got a strong electrical current field, magnetic disturbances, and an extreme particle flow. Has to be it, don’t you think?”
“Has to be.” Dad is nodding, and his eyes have that far-away-in-physics-land look.
Mom asks what I’m thinking: “But Leo, how can we reverse the process? How do we get things back to normal? And how do we do it before the police come to haul us away?”
Dad and Dr. Van Dorn look at each other, just for a second. And it’s like they’re holding this high-level, silent conference, and I see everything, and it’s almost like I hear them talking back and forth: Incredibly complex—Possibly years just to develop a workable theory—Hundreds of variables to isolate and test—Not to mention questions about body chemistry and environmental factors. I can see this kind of stuff flashing through their minds.
Then Dad says, “Hard to say, Emily. Maybe a week, maybe longer.”
And the look on Dr. Van Dorn’s face says, Maybe years. I see it all.
I can’t take it. And I’m not hungry anymore. I push my chair back and stand up. “You’re not being honest, neither of you. Even if you’ve found the cause, really figuring it out and reversing it could take forever. And we don’t have forever. I am now wanted by the law in two states, and Dad isn’t going to get to do much research in jail. So tomorrow we call that lady and we get her over here, and we tell her. Then we tell the university and the people who run FermiLab, tell everybody. Show them. Then we don’t have to act like criminals. Then there’ll be tons of research money and facilities, and we can really figure this thing out.”
Dad looks at me, at the space above my collar where he guesses my eyes are. And there’s so much sadness in his face. “Bobby, Dr. Van Dorn and I discussed this situation when we spoke this afternoon. And we both decided that we do not want this to become public. Not ever. It’s too dangerous. I mean, it’s not like the Manhattan Project or anything, not like developing a nuclear weapon. But still, this kind of science can hurt people. Do we want invisible soldiers and police and spies all over the place? Or invisible criminals? Can you imagine the level of security we’d all have to live with if this technology becomes widely known? And even more important, do we want to sacrifice any chance for you to eventually have a normal life again? We’ve each promised to keep this an absolute secret, just our two families. The business with the police will go away. It has to. They can’t prove anything. No motive, no crime, no evidence. Your mom and I talked, and really, all we’ve done wrong is lie about you going to Florida. And we can just say we did that because you’d run away, and we wanted you to have time to come home without any penalties or bad effects on your record at school. Parents can’t be punished because a kid decides to run away from home. So we just have to change our story. I’m sure this is the best way. We’re all sure it is.”
During this speech, it’s like I’m in a time machine. All I hear is what I’ve been hearing for fifteen years: Everyone else has decided what’s best for me. They’re all sure. They’ve made up their minds. And now they’re telling me. They’re telling me how they’ve decided my life will be. I’m a runaway. I’m a fugitive. I’m a milk-carton kid. I’m officially missing. They’ve decided.
My jaw muscles tighten. I feel my face twist, feel my hands clench. They have such a grand plan for me.
I want to scream. I want to froth at the mouth and swear and stomp my feet and break up some chairs and throw chicken soup all over the place. And I want to yell, It’s my life! You can’t leave me out of the decisions about my own life! You are not in charge here!
But I control myself. In a calm voice I say, “I think I need to get some rest. I’ll eat later.”
As I leave the table, Mom looks suddenly worried, and Dad looks confused. Dr. Van Dorn seems embarrassed, so he looks down at his precious stack of data.
And I’m alone in my room. Alone. Mom and Dad are down there, spoons clinking on their bowls, ladling out soup for their uninvited dinner guest, their fellow conspirator.
And I’m alone.