TWENTY

Now I know how Joan of Arc felt—as the flames rose to her Roman nose and her Walkman started to melt.

—The Smiths, “Bigmouth Strikes Again”

“Finny says you have a boyfriend,” Peyton said, standing in the doorway.

I opened my eyes and looked around like I did every time we moved to a new town.

“Not exactly,” I said, realizing I was in New York. I sat up and threw a heavy quilt off me.

“I thought Finny was your boyfriend,” she said, handing me a glass of orange juice.

“He’s gay,” I said, sipping it, citrus washing over my tongue.

“Oh,” she said. “He’s really cute.”

“True,” I said. “He’s going to make some boy extremely happy one day.”

She stood by the bed like she wanted to sit on it, but we weren’t there yet. “Did you sleep okay? That quilt can be kind of hot.”

I held a piece of it in my hand. Maybe it was her quilt, made by someone who loved her, pieces of her childhood in one place instead of scattered, like mine. Maybe the red patch with the bright green apples was from a dress she wore on the first day of kindergarten, which she hated because she was taller than everyone else. Maybe the dress that had seen her through a horrible day had just seen me through a rough night.

“I slept fine,” I said, leaning back into the pillows. “Is this your quilt?”

“My grandmother made it,” she said. “It’s nice to have someone you love make you something.”

“I’d rather have the person,” I said, thinking about the way Dad tucked me in at night if he was home, or surprised me with breakfast in the morning when he returned.

“So would I,” she said.

She leaned over and patted my hand. I knew I should respond, but my body wouldn’t move. My hand stayed stiff like something out of the morgue, which made her remove hers.

“I talked to your mom this morning,” she said. “Since you have to go back tonight, would you like to go into the city with me? I have to work for a few hours, but I can hang out with you guys after that.”

I got out of bed and walked to the window. Gray clouds marched in like robots, defending the sky.

“There isn’t something more important you have to do today?”

I was planning on lying to her about my search for Dad—that wasn’t the point. The point was that she was thinking about the Statue of Liberty and Central Park while I was focused on uncovering answers. Securing sanity. Finding my father.

“I haven’t given up on him,” she said, joining me at the window. She’d abandoned the whole turquoise motif for black pants, a black sweater and an orange wooden necklace. “But there’s nothing to do at this point but wait. You might as well enjoy the city while you’re here.”

Adults had this insane ability to compartmentalize. I’d watched my mom do it and tried to copy her because it seemed so convenient. Emotions? On. Emotions? Off. It was the kind of thing that could come in handy, post-episode, but I never made it work. Maybe I needed more practice, but when something was going on with me, it was really going on. At least in my brain. Even if my feet kept walking, my mind was still there, fully obsessed with the problem. But maybe it would work. Just this once.

“You’re right,” I said, turning away from the window. Lying for the greater good. “We’d love to meet up with you, but I want to take Finny to my favorite breakfast place before we hit Chinatown.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I promised your mom I’d look after you. What would she think if I let you run around New York by yourself?”

“She wouldn’t think twice about it,” I said. “I lived here for years and took the subway to school with her and everywhere else, for that matter. I know my way around.”

She looked worried, but then she looked at her watch. It was delicate and small.

“I don’t love this idea, but I have to get to a meeting,” she said. “I’ll leave a MetroCard and an extra key for you on the hall table. Finny gave me both of your cell numbers, and he has mine, so just call me after Chinatown. At the very least, I want to take you to dinner tonight. Anywhere you want.”

“Anywhere?” I said, thinking about all the things I missed, from pizza to pierogi. “I’d love Italian. If we’re lucky, maybe Dad will even show up.”

It left my mouth before I had a chance to catch it. Peyton leaned back against the wall.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m horrible until I’ve had coffee.”

“I’ll remember that,” she said. “But considering you traveled for twenty hours to see your dad and ended up with me, I’ll let it slide. That is, if you promise to meet me for dinner.”

“Deal,” I said, knowing it wasn’t. I had no idea where the day would take me.

She smiled, walked out of my room and then turned back around. “I want to find him as much as you do,” she said. “I just wanted you to know that.”

When I heard the lock click, I thought about what I’d do if I were her. If she cared as much as I did, I’d think she’d use every single second—especially ones with his daughter—to find him. No farewell dinner, not even if it consisted entirely of chocolate, could change the fact that she’d given up.

I got my phone out of my bag and turned it on. I’d turned it off after talking to Mom last night, afraid she’d call. I wasn’t ready to talk to her yet, not now, knowing what I knew about us leaving Dad instead of the other way around. I clicked on Drew’s name, thinking I might text him, but the phone started ringing instead. I’d accidentally called him. And before I had the chance to hang up—

“Hello?”

His voice had the same effect on me that his hand did when it brushed my sweater.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hey,” he said. “Are you back?”

“Nope,” I said. “Still in New York.”

“Wait, you’re in New York?”

I had to be careful—Drew only knew part of the story—but his voice made careful go out the window.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m visiting my dad.”

“Are you going to Strand? The book mecca of the East?”

“Of course,” I said, wishing I had time for anything but the search. “You’ve been?”

“Only once,” he said. “But I’d live there if I could.”

Swooooon.

“Sophie!” Finny’s voice floated through the door. “Are you up?”

“Is that your dad?” Drew asked. If only.

“Cousin,” I said. “I hate to do this, but I called you on accident. I mean, I was going to call you later, but I didn’t mean to call you now, and people are waiting for me.”

I opened the door, pointed to my phone and mouthed “Drew.” Finny hopped up and down, which was annoying but at least it didn’t make noise.

“And I have to go to school,” Drew said. “But I like hearing you.”

“Hearing me what?”

“Your voice,” he said.

“Oh.” I collapsed back onto the bed. I knew I was supposed to say something witty, but I was stunned. He liked my voice.

“Hey, do you want to have lunch this weekend? Will you be back?” he said.

“Maybe lunch or real lunch?”

“Real lunch,” he said. “If you promise not to run away, I promise to have lunch.”

“I’m not going to run away,” I said. Not after I found Dad. Not after I found some answers.

“Cool,” he said. “It will be like our own secret rule. No running allowed.”

“Maybe I should wear heels,” I said. “You know, to hinder my bolting instinct.”

“I like your shoes,” he said. I looked over and saw my Docs standing in a corner by themselves. I liked him.

“Me too,” I said.

“Sophie!” Finny shouted through the door. “We need to go.”

“Okay, I have to go,” I said, even though I could have stayed on that phone forever.

“Yeah,” Drew said. “Me too. So I’ll see you soon?”

“You will,” I said, wondering if I’d be a different person. Hoping I’d come home better—and saner—than when I left. I hung up quickly before I said something stupid. It was inevitable, but my awkwardness would have to wait. Today was going to be tough enough.

“Anytime today would be nice,” Finny yelled through the door.

I was hungry and definitely needed coffee, but this might be the last time I saw this house, the last known place Dad had been. Maybe there was a clue I had missed, or maybe I just wanted a moment here. Another peek at the basement. Good thing Finny could fend for himself.

“Why don’t you go ahead?” I said. “You know how long it takes a girl to get ready.”

“Almost as long as me!” Finny said.

I opened the door a crack and stuck my head out.

“Yes, you need a shower,” he said. “And yes, I’m dying to hear about your little love chat with Drew.”

“All in good time,” I said. “Which will be about thirty minutes.”

“I’ll be one coffee ahead of you,” Finny said, bounding down the stairs. “Come any later and I’ll be jittery.”

“I’ll be there!” I shouted, meaning it. I was definitely a little wacky on two cups of coffee, but Finny was beyond. It was like the caffeine tapped into the part of his brain that loved physics and opened a secret door, the one that made connections to everything. Maybe that was what had happened to Dad. Maybe if he’d switched to herbal tea, he’d be here right now.

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I had packed another skirt and could have worn something else, but I saw my clothes, clean and stacked on the dresser. The elephant skirt seemed lucky, like the time Dad told me he walked home with elephants. Two of them lumbered on either side of him like a wall, protecting him from the outside, but gentle creatures, protecting him from his insides. Each step thumped, like the echo of a thousand friends. Elephants carried you when you couldn’t go the distance, he said. They made you feel less alone.

I threw on the skirt, a long-sleeved T-shirt and my short-sleeved tape tree shirt in honor of Dad. Mixtapes hung from its branches instead of fruit. There had to be something promising about that.

“Perfection,” I said, packing the rest of my bag and heading to the kitchen. I wrote Peyton a note, asking her to send the box of tapes to my address in Havencrest, and then I leaned it next to the phone. The phone I should have used to check in with Mom, but I wasn’t going to do that. Not yet. Then I turned to the basement, its aqua doorknob gleaming in the morning light.

As soon as I opened the door, I wished I hadn’t. Without the romance of the evening or the twinkling lights, the basement looked dirty, like the contents of a crazy brain spread out in the sunlight. Since I didn’t know when—or if—I was ever coming back, I took a mental picture of it. And then, because it was depressing, I erased it.

I closed the basement door, blew a kiss to the kitchen table and waved good-bye to my photo on the mantel. As I stepped out onto the stoop, I felt a drop on my head. Then two drops. Then rain fell like little tennis balls, pounding my back. I ran toward the diner, dodging raindrops, but bumped into a green umbrella with white polka dots instead. And the panda who was holding it.

“Nice timing,” I said, slipping underneath.

“Isn’t it always?” The rain hit the top of the umbrella, making a nice plop and then a swoosh as it slid off the side.

“Where are you headed?” he said.

“To meet Finny,” I said. “Breakfast.”

“Yum,” he said. “I could destroy a Greek omelet about now. How’d it go with your dad?”

I started to tell him the whole thing—Dad’s car and the kitchen table, Peyton and the basement—when I realized that Walt was omniscient. He knew where I was and when I needed help, which could only mean one thing.

“You knew,” I said, backing out from under the umbrella.

“Knew what?”

“That Dad was missing.”

“Come back, you’re going to get soaked,” he said. “And I didn’t know for sure. I hoped he’d show up by the time you got here.”

“God!” I said, stomping my boots in a puddle, sending rain up onto my knees. “I can’t believe you! You’re all Sophie, watch for signs. Sophie, pay attention. Sophie, stay on the path. And all this time, you knew my path would lead me to nothing?”

“I wouldn’t say nothing,” he said. “What about the book? The basement? The tapes?”

“A mixtape is not a substitute for a person,” I said, and I knew. I’d been trying that for years. “I need my dad.”

Tears ran down my face, mixing with raindrops. Before New York, I thought that letters or phone calls would be enough, but they weren’t. I wanted more.

“I helped you the only way I could,” he said. “I can’t predict the future.”

Walt walked closer and extended the umbrella over me so that he was left out in the rain, unprotected.

“Tell me where he is,” I said.

“You know I can’t do that,” Walt said. “First, I don’t know where he is, and second, that’s not how it works.”

“So you know where he’s not, but you don’t know where he is?” I said. “As far as magical powers go, you got gypped.”

“I’m not a genie,” he said. “I don’t grant you wishes or consult an eight ball—I protect you. And guide you toward the truth.”

“And what is the truth, exactly?” I said. “You know, for someone who tells me so little, you hold an awful lot of power over me.”

“You have free will,” he said. “You act as you please.”

“Yeah, but I take your advice,” I said. “And I don’t know anything about you except that your boss is a council, and their rules run your life. I don’t know why you’re here and why you’re even bothering with me. Are you giving guidance or messing with me? Why do I even listen to you?”

“Because we have a connection,” he said.

“Not anymore,” I said, walking toward the diner.

“Wait,” Walt said, following me. “Let’s talk.”

I turned, rain dripping from my hair into my face.

“I don’t want to talk,” I said. “I want to eat breakfast with my best friend, someone who is actually trying to help me. And then I want to go to NYU and look for clues. I would ask you to help, but we both know where that got me.”

“Sophie, please,” he said. “I don’t make the rules.”

“Oh, yeah?” I felt anger rising, with a vengeance. “Well, then I don’t follow them.”

Drizzle started up again as I walked away, Walt’s voice fading in the background. He could show up again, right in front of me, but I didn’t think he would. He may have been a lot of things, but the panda who blocked my path wasn’t one of them.

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“Whoa,” Finny said as I slid into the booth across from him. “Good thing these booths are vinyl.”

“I know,” I said, wiping my face with a napkin as water dripped from my hair. “But Walt had the umbrella, and he made me mad, so I wouldn’t stand under it. Hence the wet-dog look.”

“Use this,” Finny said, handing me his jacket. I squeezed most of the water out of my hair into it and I would have felt bad, but I was with him when he bought it. And it was only three dollars.

“What did you fight about?” Finny pushed his orange juice to the side and flipped his phone over.

“Who were you talking to?”

“No one,” Finny said, grinning like Cupid. Wait.

“Finny . . .”

“Like I can help it if your super-hunky boy crush called me.”

“Drew called you?”

“I might have slipped him my number when I slipped him yours.”

“Finny!”

“What? If you two get together, we’ll all be friends and he’ll be calling me, anyway,” Finny said.

“What did he want?”

“My lips are sealed,” he said. “He’s doing something special for you, and I don’t care what you threaten me with, I’m not telling you.”

I leaned back in the booth. When it came to love, Finny was horrible at keeping secrets, which meant all I had to do was wait it out.

“That’s fine,” I said. “I’ll see Drew this weekend if I’m not eternally grounded. I think I can wait.”

“You’re not even going to grill me?” he said, picking up the notebook sitting on top of Dad’s book.

“It’s not important,” I said. “Well, not as important as that.”

I pointed to Dad’s book.

“And this,” I said as a mug of coffee appeared in front of me. Finny stared as I held the sugar pourer over it, counted to five and then added half of the silver cream container.

“What?” I said. “I call it Comfort Coffee. It only appears in times of crisis.”

“Buckwheat blueberry pancakes with fruit?” the waitress said, holding two plates over our table.

“You ordered me breakfast?” I said, scooting my coffee over.

“Yup,” Finny said. “You said those were your favorite.”

“Hearts,” I said, cutting into the stack with my knife. Not finding Dad was making me ravenous. “But Dad’s book is my new favorite. Can you tell me about the first part?”

“I can do better than that,” he said, clearing his throat. “I can read it to you.”

CHAPTER ONE:
THE LAW OF TRAVELING

. . . People often talk about traveling, from Bangkok to Brussels, from Taiwan to Timbuktu. Yet no one talks about traveling to parallel universes. And that’s what the Law of Traveling is all about.

String theory is very much a work in progress. But if we take it at its word, we know that everything is composed of tiny, vibrating strings that split and reconnect. There is evidence to support the idea that in between all these strings are spaces—gaps, if you will. Some are large, some are small, and some are just the right size for energy, gravity and matter to pass through.

The Law of Traveling contends that if those things can travel to parallel universes, so can soccer balls and raindrops, bicycles and balloons. And if we take it a step further, this principle asks you to imagine: if those things can travel, why can’t we?

I leaned back against the vinyl seat like I did another time I’d had my mind blown. The time I saw the heart roll off the sleeve.

“Is he saying what I think he’s saying?”

“That depends,” Finny said. “What do you think he’s saying?”

“That traveling to other universes is possible?”

“Yes!” Finny said. He was so excited he bumped the table with his knee and spilled coffee everywhere. “And that’s just the beginning. You won’t believe what’s in this book.”

I mopped up the coffee with napkins, hands shaking.

“Sophie, he talks about souvenirs,” Finny said. And then he opened the book and pointed to a diagram that connected different parts of the brain to various atomic structures. “I think he was using physics to prove he wasn’t crazy.”

And there it was—another marker along the path. Just like Walt had said.

“I haven’t read the whole thing, but if your dad proves his theory, it’s not mental illness he’s dealing with,” he said. “Which means you’re not dealing with it, either.”

I wondered if there was a limit to the number of times your brain could be blown in an hour. Walt knew my dad wasn’t there, Dad believed in dimensional travel, and he mentioned souvenirs in his book for anyone—everyone—to read. I came here hoping physics would explain everything, but I never actually thought that it would.

“It’s an amazing idea,” I said softly, tucking my hands under my legs so they wouldn’t shake.

“You choose now to start being skeptical?” Finny said.

“Not skeptical, careful,” I said.

Maybe it came from being abandoned by Dad or having to move a bunch of times, but I’d had my heart broken enough to be cautious. At least when it came to believing that there truly was one answer for everything.

“There are people who know Dad and who know more than we do,” I said. “They’re all at NYU. Hopefully they can fill in the blanks left by the book.”

We ate in silence for a while, grounding ourselves for what was to come. Finny had a third cup of coffee and I had a second, full of more comfort than the first. I looked at Dad’s book sitting on the table, wondering where it would lead us. Wondering if anyone believed him and, if they did, hoping they’d talk to me.

Finny pushed his plate back and his mug away.

“I’m cutting myself off,” he said.

“And I’m full,” I said, eating the last syrup-soaked blueberry. “Want to get out of here?”

“Yes,” Finny said, bounding out of the booth like a superhero. “Take me to your teacher!”

“They’re called professors,” I said, giggling.

“I know, but that didn’t rhyme with leader,” Finny said, leaving money on the table. “Take me anywhere that’s not Havencrest, and I’ll be happy.”

“Then you are about to bliss out,” I said, linking arms with him and heading for the subway.

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On the way to the Q train, we passed a guy playing kazoo, a woman selling god’s eyes and an old man with no teeth and a coffee cup full of coins.

“Happy yet?” I said.

“You have no idea,” he said. “You weren’t kidding.”

“You get used to it,” I said. And then you learn to love it, I thought.

The train was packed until a guy in a bathrobe got up and an orange seat appeared. Finny nodded at me, and I took it, squeezing in between a man wearing a suit and a woman wearing a purple jacket with shoulder pads. Papers went up, and Finny disappeared.

“Finny,” I said over a Wall Street Journal. “If you see a seat, take it. Just get off at Canal Street and wait under the sign. I’ll find you.”

“Okay,” his muffled voice said. “Canal Street. Got it.”

I read headlines ranging from “Big Polluters Told to Report Emissions” to “White House Considers Economic Strategy Shift.” But the best one was on the paper right in front of me: “Study Assesses Women and Responses to Love.” According to the article, a recent study showed that 84 percent of women weren’t emotionally satisfied with their romantic lives. I wasn’t even sure what that meant, but it didn’t sound good. It also mentioned that we didn’t trust men, even though we wanted to. I wondered what the numbers said about pandas.

I took my Walkman out of my bag and felt around in my pocket for the Love mixtape, but it wasn’t there. My logical mind knew that Peyton had washed my skirt and that she probably put the tape somewhere else, but my emotional brain panicked. What if it got washed? Or fell out and someone stepped on it? What if Love was gone like it had never existed? I felt in my other pockets and dug through my bag, but it wasn’t there, either. No Love anywhere. Nada.

“No,” I said. I had come too far for this. “No, no, no, no.”

Gray Suit stared straight ahead, but Puffy Shoulders turned.

“Can I help you with something, honey?”

“I lost something important,” I said, looking through my bag again.

“Maybe it can be replaced,” she said, closing the book she was reading—Women Who Love Too Much. “Unless it’s a photo. Once I lost the only photo I had of Mr. Murphy, and that was sad.”

She had curly hair, and bright orange balls hung from her ears, the same color as her lipstick. “I’m from Montana,” she said, as if that explained why she was talking to me, since no one talked to anyone on the subway. “Mr. Murphy was from Oklahoma, but he was a great tabby.”

A cat. She’d lost a photo of her cat. And I’d lost the closest thing I’d had to a conversation with my dad in four years.

“It was a love letter,” I said, thinking that was the best way to explain it.

“Oh, that’s awful,” she said. “According to this book I’m reading, though, we shouldn’t depend on others. We can get all the love we need by loving ourselves.”

I think Puffy Shoulders forgot that I was a kid, and kids weren’t supposed to have to do all the loving themselves, but whatever. The train slowed as we approached Canal Street, and I squeezed through the door as it was closing, hoping Finny had made it.

“Ta-da!” he said when I found him standing under the sign. “What’s wrong?”

“I lost the Love tape,” I said.

Finny grabbed my hand and pulled me up the stairs, for a change. “Not lost, just misplaced,” he said. “Like your dad.”

I punched his arm, and we walked through neon signs and chickens hanging from the ceilings, colored lanterns and tables of herbs and teapots. I’d have to compartmentalize again, or at least try. I had to put lost Love away for a minute and focus on what I could find instead.

“This is where you used to hang out after school?” Finny said.

“Only sometimes,” I said. Dad and I went there on the way home a few times, trying on slippers and doing origami. That’s what happened when your dad was a professor. Afternoons weren’t spent at home, they were spent on campus at another school or in the neighborhoods around it.

I grabbed a wok and tried it on as a hat. “Who could resist this?”

“Not me,” Finny said, hanging two bundles of herbs from his ears like earrings.

For a minute we forgot about the book and just had fun, like we did in school. We faked fights with chopsticks, tried on masks like that scene in Breakfast at Tiffany’s and put slippers on our hands and made them talk like puppets. I picked up a red dragon mask, which reminded me of the time Dad took me to a Chinese New Year parade. Huge dragons lined the streets, and even though I knew that the floats and masks were fake, I was terrified they were going to eat me. Dad picked me up and put me on his shoulders, but instead of walking away, he walked right out into the middle of the parade, putting me at eye level with the dragons. Their eyes bulged and their teeth flashed, but when I saw the seams—and the people inside them—I knew I was safe. As the music played and the lights glowed, as I sat on Dad’s shoulders eating cookies, I thought I’d always be safe.

“How about this one?”

Finny spun around in a kimono, which he dubbed the Chinese Smoking Jacket.

“Debonair, right? Or whatever the Chinese word for debonair is?”

“You look fabulous,” I said. “Buy it, and let’s get out of here.”

“What’s the rush?” he said, taking it off.

“There’s more to see where this came from,” I said. I could only hope Dad would be one of them. “Plus I’m hungry again. Let’s hit the hum bao stand.”

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By the time we arrived at Washington Square Park, it was almost noon. And since the rain had stopped, the park was full of jugglers and chess players, acrobats and a guy playing a baby grand piano. Parts of a shiny orange and purple dress flew by me as cards appeared in my face.

“Future?” the purple-dress lady asked. “Want to know your future?”

I did, but I didn’t want to know it from her.

“No thanks,” I said, pushing Finny along. “We’re good.”

We walked past a group of guys playing jazz, and I had the urge to ask the flute player or cardboard box drummer if they remembered Angelino Sophia. He ate lunch there every day and was the kind of guy who’d borrow an upright bass and try to fit in, even though the only stringed instrument he knew how to play was a banjo he’d made out of rubber bands. But things like that never stopped him.

“I want to go with you,” Finny said. “On your interviews.”

I’d stopped to look at the Matchstick Man’s boxes. You’d never see something like that in Havencrest.

“Would you be offended if we divided and conquered?” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean we only have a day,” I said. “What if I took the interviews and you researched? Since I know some of the professors, it kind of makes sense. Plus you’ve read all of Dad’s book, so you know what to look for.”

“Like more copies?”

“That, and other books or articles that support his ideas,” I said. “Maybe other grad students wrote papers on his work, and this would be the best place to find that stuff.”

“True,” Finny said. “You know I’d do anything to help, but I was really looking forward to meeting a few professors.”

“And you will,” I said. “But can you spend a few hours at the greatest library on Earth? For me?”

Finny’s eyes followed my hand as it pointed to a tall, red building that resembled a Lego from the outside but looked like the future on the inside. Twelve stories of glass and miles of words. I always thought if brains were square and could be categorized like the Dewey decimal system, they would look like the Elmer Holmes Bobst Library.

“Wow,” he said. Then he shook his head and faced me. “If you need me to make the ultimate sacrifice and go in there, I will. For you.”

“You really are the world’s best friend, did you know that?”

“I did,” he said, spinning around. “Which means you owe me.”

“I always owe you,” I said, thinking about all the times he’d helped me in the short time I’d known him. “Let’s hope I can deliver in the form of a famous physicist.”

“Maybe the librarians knew him,” Finny said.

“Now your Sherlock Holmes is showing,” I said. “Anything you can find will help.”

“Even stuff on the whole parallel-universe-and-panda thing?”

I laughed. “If you can find a book on that, we’ll have a slumber party at the New York Hall of Science.”

“That’s what I call motivation,” he said grinning. And then he took Dad’s book out of his bag and handed it to me.

“You’ll need this more where you’re going,” he said.

I held it in my hands like a promise. And then I put it in my bag so I wouldn’t lose it.

“Thanks,” I said. Then I pointed to a bench up ahead, right outside of Bobst. “Let’s meet here at three. And good luck.”

Finny laughed. “Who needs luck when you have over three million volumes?”

He walked away, waving, and I reviewed my plan: if Dad wouldn’t come to me, I’d go to him, retracing his last-known steps and making them mine, like when we used to play Copy Me. It was a game that involved me doing whatever Dad did. And even though that sometimes meant wearing suits to sell tubes of toothpaste to our neighbors, it was fun. Most of them thought he was an actor. None of them knew he was a scientist trying to change the world.

Dad modeled dimensions using whipped cream and balloons. He made punching robots named Energy and Matter. On good days, he shared his loftiest thoughts with me, and on bad ones, he acted like I didn’t exist. I wondered if he was always like that or if I made him that way. When I left, did he get worse? Because I know I did. It was why I had to find him. It was also why I was there, dealing with energy and matter. The matter being my father, the energy being myself, propelled toward him. Step by New York City step.