Page 174 of The Otherworld

JACK

The recruitment office is small and aggressively tidy—empty this late in the day except for the stony-faced officer who sits behind a metal desk, looking over the questionnaire I’ve filled out.

“You have your wings already, huh?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve been a licensed pilot for three years now.”

The officer nods, looking impressed. “Well, that’ll certainly give you a useful head start if you go on to pursue a career as an aviator.”

“I want to, sir.”

The officer cuts me a no-nonsense look. “That’s what every recruit says. But there’s much more to being an Air Force pilot than simply wanting it.”

“Yes, sir.”

He staples a few papers together and sets them aside, then passes me a stack of information pamphlets. “I’ll start processing your forms right away. If everything looks good, your next step will be to take the Armed Services Vocation Aptitude Battery, the ASVAB, and see what jobs you qualify for. In the meantime, you can learn more about test requirements and career paths in there.” He taps the stack of literature, which looks like a test all by itself.

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate your time.”

Adam told me not to do anything stupid. But as I step out of that recruitment office, I can’t help feeling like this is the first time I haven’t done something stupid in my whole life.

When I get back in my Mustang and start the engine, “In the Air Tonight” is playing on the radio, and something about it feels meaningful. I drive back home with the windows down, thinking about what Orca wrote in her letter. How she told me I’d find myself somewhere out there. How is it that she’s always known me better than I know myself?

I don’t know myself.

I don’t know who the hell Jack Stevenson is.

But I’m going to find out.

* * *

When I get home, Mom informs me that I’ve missed dinner. I don’t care. She and Dad are seated in the living room, the evening news playing quietly on the TV.

“Where have you been?” Mom asks, peering at me over her shoulder.

“Nowhere,” I say, stopping at the back of her chair and leaning down to kiss the top of her head.

She frowns, startled by how nice I’m being. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

I shuck off my jacket and head for my room, bracing myself for another argument with Adam. But when I open the door and step inside, the room is dark and silent.

Adam’s pillow and blankets are gone from his bed. Some other stuff is missing, too—his backpack, his leather bomber jacket, and his aviator shades.

“Jackie?”

I turn around to find Mom standing in the doorway, studying me with a worried look.

“Where’s Adam?” I ask.

Mom crosses her arms over her chest. “He’s gone, Jack.”

Those words sting like a slap. I am instantly thrown back in time to that awful night I stood in this very spot and watched Mom fall apart because she thought Adam was dead. She said those same words that night. He’s gone, Jack.

I shut my eyes, pushing the memory away. “When did he leave?”

“This morning,” Mom says. “I thought you knew.”

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