Page 8 of The Otherworld

It’s still neatly made. Hospital corners. The faded quilt folded twice at the end. His desk, his dresser, his books—frozen in time.

Frozen, like his skin was.

Face in the water.

Gash.

Blood.

“No,” I say, my voice like sandpaper in my throat. “No, no, it was just a dream.”

I force myself to look away from his side of the room and climb out of bed, feeling gutted as I walk to the door. The sound of my parents’ hushed voices drifts down the hallway from the kitchen. I duck into the bathroom and turn the shower on to the coldest setting, bracing my arms against the tiled wall as the icy water rushes over me.

Colder, colder.

Is this fifty degrees?

The coast guard has a method for calculating the likelihood of survival when someone is lost at sea.

The survival rate for a twenty-eight-year-old man in fifty-degree water is one hundred percent in the first two hours.

Three hours and it falls to seventy percent.

Six hours and it falls to five percent.

I’m so cold now, I can barely breathe. I reach down and shut off the water. I stand shivering and gasping for a long moment, my forehead pressed against the shower wall.

It’s been three days.

Not hours.

Days.

I throw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, running a towel through my wet hair. The voices of Mom and Dad become clearer as I drift down the wood-paneled hallway toward the kitchen. Their conversation dies as soon as I step into the room.

“Jack,” Mom says from the table, where she sits across from Dad, “are you okay, sweetheart?”

I look at Adam’s empty chair.

“I’m fine,” I whisper.

Silence while I shuffle over to the coffee maker and pour myself a cup. Silence while I watch the black liquid swirl and steam. Silence while I walk to the table and sit down.

My gaze slides between Mom and Dad. I want to ask if there is any news, but at the same time, I don’t want to know. Dad stares into his coffee cup, and Mom presses her lips together. She’s been crying.

I look at Adam’s empty chair again.

“I’m going outside,” I mutter, standing up.

“Wait, Jackie.”

I look at Mom, but she only stares at me like she doesn’t know what to say. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear with one trembling hand. “We want to talk to you.”

Those words hit me like a punch.

Adam is dead.

I swallow, gripping the back of my chair. “Did you hear from the coast guard?”

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