Page 18 of The Otherworld

“Well, if you don’t count Papa and the coast guard and the supply man who comes twice a year.”

“Wait, what? Hold on, my phone’s about to die.”

“Die? What do you mean die?”

“I’ll call you right back, okay? Don’t go anywhere.”

There’s no avoiding Mom when I walk through the front door, still cradling my bloody, busted hand. She freaks out when she sees it, dragging me over to the sink to wash the wound as if I don’t know how to do that myself by now.

“What on earth happened to you?”

“Nothing, Mom. I’m fine, really. I need to charge my phone.”

“Your phone can wait.” Mom runs cold water over my bloody knuckles, and when I look into her exhausted, red eyes, I can see that she needs this—she needs to take care of someone, to put something right. So I let her wash my hand and wrap it in a clean towel.

“I’m sorry for yelling,” I whisper, kissing the top of her head.

She squeezes my arm. “It’s okay, sweetie.”

In my room, I pull my phone charger out of the mess on my nightstand and plug it into the wall, stretching out on Adam’s bed so I don’t have to look at it. Poor Adam always kept his side of the room so shipshape but had to look at mine, which is almost as much of a wreck as I feel. I see clothes I keep forgetting to put away, my backpack slumped beside my bed, books spilling out to join the VHS tapes and video games on the floor, most of which are in the wrong cases. My sneakers kicked far away from each other, my aviator shades ready to fall off the edge of the dresser, and my bomber jacket left on my unmade bed.

I wish I’d been as tidy as Adam was.

Did I just say was?

I curse under my breath, picking up my blood-smeared phone and calling Adam’s number again. For the millionth time, I listen to it ring, ring, ring. I know it won’t be Adam who answers, and that knowing is a knife in my chest because all I want is to hear him pick up, to know it’s not true, he’s not—

“Jack Stevenson?” Orca asks.

“Hi, Orca.” My voice breaks like a thirteen-year-old’s, and goddamn it, I am not going to cry, not on the phone with this girl.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Tell me more about your island.”

“What about it?”

“Anything. How big is it? What’s the terrain like? How long does it take to get around it?”

“It’s not very big,” she says. “I can walk around the whole thing in less than a day. Some of the coastline is sand, and some of it’s rocky and steep. You have to climb when you get to those places if you’re walking around the perimeter. It’s not hard, though. I’ll go out looking tomorrow after Papa leaves for the mainland. Lucius can help me search.”

“Who’s Lucius? I thought you said—”

“My dog. He’s a good tracker, and I have some of your brother’s stuff, so he’ll be able to pick up a scent.”

My racing pulse begins to calm. Not because of this tracker dog, but because of the way Orca says it. With hope in her voice. She’s the only one who still has hope. I know she’s naive—for god’s sake, I’m probably the first person besides her dad that she’s carried on a real conversation with.

But she has hope.

When no one else does.

“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice in tatters.

“Of course. It’s no trouble at all.”

“No, I mean, thank you… for believing. You’re the only other person besides me who has hope that he’s still alive. I can’t tell you how alone I feel.” I press my eyes shut, pulling in a deep breath. “Tell me something else about you.”

“About me? Like what?”

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