body tensing. “Are you a reporter?”
“No. My name is Skye Bracken. My dad is an astrophysicist at the University of New Hampshire, and this is his brother’s journal.” I waved the worn black book. “My uncle wrote it when he was seventeen.” I paused. “Here’s the thing. Back in the eighties, my uncle claims he was biking down the street and hit a wall of shimmering air. He called it a gate.”
Charley’s eyes widened, but to her credit she stood her ground, looking down at me. The newspapers hadn’t mentioned she was so flipping tall.
“According to his journal, my uncle passed out and woke up on an island called Nil.”
Charley sucked in a small breath.
“This island,” I continued, “was a freaky place. First he saw a giraffe, then a walrus, then finally some other people.” Inwardly, I winced. It sounded more unbelievable when voiced out loud. I kept going, keeping my voice calm and, hopefully, sane.
“My uncle only met teenagers, and he figured out pretty quickly they all had a year to escape or they died. Some kids died, but my uncle made it back home, through another gate. Well, not exactly home. He ended up in Boston. Anyway”—I waved the journal—“he’d been missing for ten months. When he told his parents his story, my grandparents thought he was crazy, and they made him go to therapy, where he wrote this journal. But my dad believes everything in here is the truth.” I took a deep breath. “And, after two decades of searching, now my dad thinks he can find Nil and rescue all the kids there.”
A million emotions flickered across her face, but the greatest one was grief. Crushing grief. Suddenly I felt awful. Like I was rubbing salt in raw wounds, wounds I couldn’t see but that were tearing her apart from the inside out. Pain wrapped Charley so tightly it was a miracle that she could breathe.
“I’m sorry.” I took a step back. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know where you’ve been, or what you’ve been through. And I know this all sounds crazy. I don’t know what I thought you could tell me, but my dad, he’s got this wild idea that he can find this island and save everyone—” I stopped, aware I was rambling. I never rambled. But the hurt and loss emanating from Charley was so thick it choked all rational thought.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. I turned.
“Wait.” Charley’s soft voice stopped me.
I looked back to find Charley staring at me, a tear trickling down her face. She made no move to wipe it away.
“If this place did exist”—her drawl stayed soft—“Nil, what makes your dad think he can get there?”
“His brother graphed out the stars—the constellations—and my dad believes he’s narrowed down an area in the South Pacific where he’s convinced the island is located. It’s a long shot, but my dad, well, he’s determined. He thinks there must be a direct route to the island no one has found. Yet.”
Charley pointed to the journal. “Did your uncle ever mention anything washing up on the island?”
I thought carefully. I’d been through the journal a dozen times already. “No. According to my uncle, everything on the island was made there or came through the gates.”
She didn’t flinch. “So why does your dad think he can access the island any other way?”
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “If you knew him, you’d know he’s prone to wild ideas. Even if he is an astrophysicist.”
Charley stared at me intently. “How old are you, Skye?”
“Seventeen.”
“If there is another way on the island, your dad won’t be the one to get there, because he’s too old. You already know that, don’t you?” She tilted her head at me. “But you could.” Charley closed her eyes, a long, slow blink. The she sighed. “But if you’ve read your uncle’s journal, you also know it’s not a place you want to visit. Right?”
“Right,” I said. “But what if there were a way to rescue the kids still there?”
She bit her lip
“No. My name is Skye Bracken. My dad is an astrophysicist at the University of New Hampshire, and this is his brother’s journal.” I waved the worn black book. “My uncle wrote it when he was seventeen.” I paused. “Here’s the thing. Back in the eighties, my uncle claims he was biking down the street and hit a wall of shimmering air. He called it a gate.”
Charley’s eyes widened, but to her credit she stood her ground, looking down at me. The newspapers hadn’t mentioned she was so flipping tall.
“According to his journal, my uncle passed out and woke up on an island called Nil.”
Charley sucked in a small breath.
“This island,” I continued, “was a freaky place. First he saw a giraffe, then a walrus, then finally some other people.” Inwardly, I winced. It sounded more unbelievable when voiced out loud. I kept going, keeping my voice calm and, hopefully, sane.
“My uncle only met teenagers, and he figured out pretty quickly they all had a year to escape or they died. Some kids died, but my uncle made it back home, through another gate. Well, not exactly home. He ended up in Boston. Anyway”—I waved the journal—“he’d been missing for ten months. When he told his parents his story, my grandparents thought he was crazy, and they made him go to therapy, where he wrote this journal. But my dad believes everything in here is the truth.” I took a deep breath. “And, after two decades of searching, now my dad thinks he can find Nil and rescue all the kids there.”
A million emotions flickered across her face, but the greatest one was grief. Crushing grief. Suddenly I felt awful. Like I was rubbing salt in raw wounds, wounds I couldn’t see but that were tearing her apart from the inside out. Pain wrapped Charley so tightly it was a miracle that she could breathe.
“I’m sorry.” I took a step back. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know where you’ve been, or what you’ve been through. And I know this all sounds crazy. I don’t know what I thought you could tell me, but my dad, he’s got this wild idea that he can find this island and save everyone—” I stopped, aware I was rambling. I never rambled. But the hurt and loss emanating from Charley was so thick it choked all rational thought.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. I turned.
“Wait.” Charley’s soft voice stopped me.
I looked back to find Charley staring at me, a tear trickling down her face. She made no move to wipe it away.
“If this place did exist”—her drawl stayed soft—“Nil, what makes your dad think he can get there?”
“His brother graphed out the stars—the constellations—and my dad believes he’s narrowed down an area in the South Pacific where he’s convinced the island is located. It’s a long shot, but my dad, well, he’s determined. He thinks there must be a direct route to the island no one has found. Yet.”
Charley pointed to the journal. “Did your uncle ever mention anything washing up on the island?”
I thought carefully. I’d been through the journal a dozen times already. “No. According to my uncle, everything on the island was made there or came through the gates.”
She didn’t flinch. “So why does your dad think he can access the island any other way?”
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “If you knew him, you’d know he’s prone to wild ideas. Even if he is an astrophysicist.”
Charley stared at me intently. “How old are you, Skye?”
“Seventeen.”
“If there is another way on the island, your dad won’t be the one to get there, because he’s too old. You already know that, don’t you?” She tilted her head at me. “But you could.” Charley closed her eyes, a long, slow blink. The she sighed. “But if you’ve read your uncle’s journal, you also know it’s not a place you want to visit. Right?”
“Right,” I said. “But what if there were a way to rescue the kids still there?”
She bit her lip
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