the damaged roof and into the sky. Going up . . . only up. I didn’t look down until the ruin was no bigger than my thumbnail.
The air cleared.
I found the seam. Opened my eyes.
I’d been gone for almost six hours. It felt more like fifteen minutes. Mom and Niki were arguing in the kitchen. Something about a cell phone bill. Hub was sneering at blackbirds in the back garden. Yvette had been and gone. I lay against the pillows, staring at my toes, perfectly still but shaking inside.
I recalled the painting of planet earth that I had done—and been so proud of—when I was seven years old. Burning in my hands.
It’s the end of the world, Westlake
, Dr. Quietus had said.
No.
I tried to shake my head. Couldn’t.
In a moment I was gone again. Not battling Dr. Quietus, or releasing to some heavenly locale, but surfing the universal wave function. It flowed and twisted through my history, and with every trick I pulled—every door thrown open and memory seized—it collapsed and threw me back into the core stream. Imagine riding an escalator and stepping off at the top, wanting to head left or right into this or that department, only to have the ground move beneath your feet and whip you upward again. The inexorable passage of fate—
my
fate—but I twisted and kicked against it. Didn’t
WANT
it. A barracuda fighting on the line. A falling man trying to flip gravity. Yet an unkind truth occurred to me: if I
were
to find a branch point, and assume an alternate life, I would lose Yvette forever. She wouldn’t even figure in my thoughts. And it’s not like I could track her down and make her mine, because an alternate Westlake would have no knowledge of her existence. It was a no-brainer, of course—you can’t miss what you’ve never had—but still upsetting. I slowed down, flopped my face into my hands, then screamed at a billion closed doors.
My throat was burning by the time I slipped back into my fractured shell. It was nighttime. Everybody sleeping. The house ticked like a rheumatic joint. My eyes were wide in the darkness. A muscle in my thigh thumped weakly.
It’s coming apart around you, Westlake.
There has to be a way out of this.
Piece by piece, and there’s nothing you can do about it.
Fuck Dr. Quietus. Fuck death.
It’s all over.
I’m not giving up.
The house groaned in reply. I stared at nothing, too shaken up to sleep, and so released. I found kindness and passion and love. Qualities to counteract doom. I absorbed them, and felt their benefit. Soon my throat had stopped burning, and I submarined into the ocean and swam with bioluminescent creatures—drawn like constellations—that latched onto my back like insect wings.
Or maybe I dreamed that last part. Hard to say. The next thing I knew it was morning. I could smell coffee and toast again.
Calmer. The sun pressing through the blinds. My family—although preoccupied with their own affairs—around me. I talked to Hub for a while, but didn’t tell him about Dr. Quietus. Didn’t want to worry the dude. Afterward, he jumped onto my bed and slept the way dogs sometimes do: four paws in the air, little teeth showing. Listening to him snore made me feel drowsy, too. I caught patchy but pleasant sleep, and was woken fully by the telephone ringing. It was Yvette. She was feeling under the weather and wouldn’t be coming in. Mom screwed her eyes shut and gritted her teeth, but said it was fine and to get better soon. I heard Yvette’s voice buzzing through the earpiece. She said she was sorry. I could tell she had been crying. Mom hung up, swore colourfully, and then called her part-time job to tell them that—so sorry—something had come up and she couldn’t make it in. The voice at the other end of the line snapped more than buzzed.
Mom was pissed off. She was bound to catch flak from her boss, and for something beyond her control. I was more upset, though. I had wanted—
needed—
to see Yvette. Her care, and her touch, would be so
The air cleared.
I found the seam. Opened my eyes.
I’d been gone for almost six hours. It felt more like fifteen minutes. Mom and Niki were arguing in the kitchen. Something about a cell phone bill. Hub was sneering at blackbirds in the back garden. Yvette had been and gone. I lay against the pillows, staring at my toes, perfectly still but shaking inside.
I recalled the painting of planet earth that I had done—and been so proud of—when I was seven years old. Burning in my hands.
It’s the end of the world, Westlake
, Dr. Quietus had said.
No.
I tried to shake my head. Couldn’t.
In a moment I was gone again. Not battling Dr. Quietus, or releasing to some heavenly locale, but surfing the universal wave function. It flowed and twisted through my history, and with every trick I pulled—every door thrown open and memory seized—it collapsed and threw me back into the core stream. Imagine riding an escalator and stepping off at the top, wanting to head left or right into this or that department, only to have the ground move beneath your feet and whip you upward again. The inexorable passage of fate—
my
fate—but I twisted and kicked against it. Didn’t
WANT
it. A barracuda fighting on the line. A falling man trying to flip gravity. Yet an unkind truth occurred to me: if I
were
to find a branch point, and assume an alternate life, I would lose Yvette forever. She wouldn’t even figure in my thoughts. And it’s not like I could track her down and make her mine, because an alternate Westlake would have no knowledge of her existence. It was a no-brainer, of course—you can’t miss what you’ve never had—but still upsetting. I slowed down, flopped my face into my hands, then screamed at a billion closed doors.
My throat was burning by the time I slipped back into my fractured shell. It was nighttime. Everybody sleeping. The house ticked like a rheumatic joint. My eyes were wide in the darkness. A muscle in my thigh thumped weakly.
It’s coming apart around you, Westlake.
There has to be a way out of this.
Piece by piece, and there’s nothing you can do about it.
Fuck Dr. Quietus. Fuck death.
It’s all over.
I’m not giving up.
The house groaned in reply. I stared at nothing, too shaken up to sleep, and so released. I found kindness and passion and love. Qualities to counteract doom. I absorbed them, and felt their benefit. Soon my throat had stopped burning, and I submarined into the ocean and swam with bioluminescent creatures—drawn like constellations—that latched onto my back like insect wings.
Or maybe I dreamed that last part. Hard to say. The next thing I knew it was morning. I could smell coffee and toast again.
Calmer. The sun pressing through the blinds. My family—although preoccupied with their own affairs—around me. I talked to Hub for a while, but didn’t tell him about Dr. Quietus. Didn’t want to worry the dude. Afterward, he jumped onto my bed and slept the way dogs sometimes do: four paws in the air, little teeth showing. Listening to him snore made me feel drowsy, too. I caught patchy but pleasant sleep, and was woken fully by the telephone ringing. It was Yvette. She was feeling under the weather and wouldn’t be coming in. Mom screwed her eyes shut and gritted her teeth, but said it was fine and to get better soon. I heard Yvette’s voice buzzing through the earpiece. She said she was sorry. I could tell she had been crying. Mom hung up, swore colourfully, and then called her part-time job to tell them that—so sorry—something had come up and she couldn’t make it in. The voice at the other end of the line snapped more than buzzed.
Mom was pissed off. She was bound to catch flak from her boss, and for something beyond her control. I was more upset, though. I had wanted—
needed—
to see Yvette. Her care, and her touch, would be so
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