Page 34 of The Otherworld

And all the while, Dad stares at me like I’m the one he’s lost, not Adam. Like I’m behind a glass wall, and he can’t communicate with me anymore, he doesn’t know me anymore. I’m gone, gone, gone—

“She’s real!” I yell, staggering backward and almost tripping over a chair. “I swear on my life she is real, and I talked to her—I talked to her just last night!”

“Jack.” Mom stands up. “Stop this. We want to help you. Maybe you should let me hold onto your phone for a little while.” She opens her hand, looking at me with those gentle eyes full of tears.

I shake my head. “No. No, I know what this is—”

“Sweetheart—”

“No! You think I’m out of my mind, and I’m not. YOU are. Both of you are!”

I turn and run down the hallway into my room—slamming the door. I twist the lock with my shaking fingers and collapse, sliding to the floor. I press my hands to my face, digging my fingertips in. They smell like pine and feel like splinters, but the pain is nothing compared to the knife in my chest.

I’m not crazy.

Orca is real. She has to be real.

Right?

Thunder booms through the sky, vibrating in the walls. I sit crumpled on the floor with my head in my hands as the rain starts pouring down in buckets.

Could it really all be in my mind?

I bury my face in my hands and lose it. Silently, so Mom and Dad don’t hear, but the sobs still rattle my body like the thunder shuddering through the sky.

9

The Storm

ORCA

A bolt of white lightning flashes across the western sky, followed by a deep bellow of thunder. I glance up from the pile of seasoned firewood to check the storm’s whereabouts.

I don’t have much time.

My heart has been racing since I returned from the woods and saw a great mob of angry black clouds charging across the water to the lighthouse. Based on the intensity of the wind, I can predict the worst of it will be upon us in ten minutes or less.

I rush to batten down the hatches, first by rounding up the last few chickens and shutting them in their indoor coop. I count seven little clucking hens before bolting the door. Next, I circle the house and secure the shutters, then scramble to haul in the chopped wood that has been stacked outside.

Lucius barks from the doorway—his warning bark, as if he thinks I can’t see the storm approaching.

“Oh, Lucius, sometimes I wish you had two hands and could help me!”

I rush past him, dumping the wood on the kitchen floor before flying out the door for another armload.

That’s when it truly starts to rain.

With another roar of thunder, the sky opens up. Gray sheets of rain roll through the troposphere, blurring the world beyond as it approaches, closer and closer—

I scoop up the last awkward load of wood and run into the house, slamming the door shut just in time.

Rain pours down, pounding against the shutters that block out the view and cocoon the house in darkness. I turn on a few lamps and get to work lighting a fire. The stove has been cold for two days now, choked with ash and smelling of creosote. I kneel on the floor and battle with the sooty beast—scooping ashes out into a bucket and stacking tinder in their place. I strike a match against the edge of the stove and carefully escort the tiny flame inside.

It catches within moments, but Lucius is still shivering. I sit on the floor and wrap my arms around him, sharing my body heat while simultaneously enjoying his. We’re both damp and dirty from our romp in the woods, but I have much to do before I can shower.

First, I should call Jack. I inwardly recoil from the idea of disappointing him again, but it cannot be avoided. He’ll be waiting to hear from me, and false hope is crueler than the awful truth.

So I fetch the phone from my room and flip it open to make a call.

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