Page 52 of The Otherworld

I never thought anyone would read my philosophical rants. But now, Orca has. She didn’t know it was private; how could she know? Still, it feels invasive—like my mind has been laid bare in front of her. Is this going to be a pattern with us?

I stifle a smile as Orca continues musing about what her “multiverse me” might be doing right now. “Certainly not cooking breakfast in this lighthouse,” she says, sliding a plate of amazing-looking food in front of me. There is freshly baked bread and piles of strawberries, and that’s when I realize that I haven’t eaten in a week—no wonder I’m starving.

“Probably not,” I reply, “but this version of me is grateful you are.”

Orca laughs and sits down with her own plate of food. “And this version of me is glad I’m not alone anymore.”

15

Irreversible

ORCA

I don’t understand how anyone could find my life here more interesting than the Otherworld. Yet this seems to be the case with Adam Stevenson. For all the questions I ask about the way he lives, he’s even more curious about the way I live. Self-sustainability may be an unusual concept where he comes from, but it’s all I’ve ever known. It’s ordinary and dull compared to the mysterious mainland.

Secretly, I’m glad the storm is severe enough to keep Adam here for a couple of days. If I can’t go to the Otherworld, I intend to relish the fact that a small piece of the Otherworld has come to me. I would have been disappointed had the weather been fine enough for the coast guard to come and fetch Adam straight away. Perhaps this is selfish of me since I’m not the one with broken ribs or a sprained ankle—but I cannot control the weather, can I?

Adam keeps me company while I go about my daily chores—most of which involve food preparation in the kitchen. I’m chopping, mixing, soaking, peeling, and scrubbing for the greater part of the day, chattering away and probably driving Adam to the brink of madness with all my questions.

“If you don’t grow your own food in the Otherworld, you must make your own clothes.”

“No,” he says. “We buy those too.”

“Do you have to buy everything in the Otherworld? With money?”

“Pretty much.”

“Where do you get all the money?”

“Working a job.”

“Goodness. People must have to spend a lot of time working.”

“Yeah. Pretty much their whole lives. Two weeks’ vacation every year for most people.”

“So when do you have time for other things? Like gardening and fishing and… oh. You don’t do that. You work instead.”

“Right.”

“That seems like a monotonous way to live.”

“It is, for a lot of people. I’m lucky to be able to do something I actually like for work.”

“Flying planes. And occasionally crashing them.”

“Don’t even start—”

I burst out laughing, making him laugh too.

He offers to help me with my chores, but I won’t allow it. There’s nothing I can’t handle on my own, and I want to show Papa just how strong I am by shouldering every burden—big or small. I need to impress him, to prove that his worries are unfounded.

I explain this to Adam later that afternoon in the living room. He’s lying on the couch at my insistence (despite his repeated declarations of “I’m not tired”), and I’m sewing the hem of a shirt I’ve been meaning to finish.

“Do you think maybe your father has another reason?” he asks. “For… not wanting you to go to the mainland?”

I frown, glancing up from the needle and thread. “What do you mean? What other reason could he possibly have?”

Adam shrugs. “You tell me.”

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