We had no pen and no paper. I pried a piece of splintered wood off the skiff’s bottom boards and we used that to cut the first initial of our chosen survivor into our palms.
Over time, strange things began to happen in those eleven minutes. The dead trees began to topple and crash into the water, creating waves that surged and flooded the boat. The fog retreated, revealing a gray sky, clouds roiling like potion in a witch’s cauldron. Swarms of red insects like the ones Martha had drawn boomeranged around us like tiny squalls of rain, emitting a high-pitched hum, colliding with our foreheads and ears and getting tangled in our hair, making us scream. A single fat fly appeared too, buzzing around our heads. We all knew it was Pete, the imaginary friend who’d lived inside Cannon’s boyhood computer, the one he’d told us about. Ice encrusted our hair and eyelashes. It thundered and snowed and hailed. In the eleventh minute, the skiff even began to disintegrate under us, blue water seeping up between the beams until the wood began to blacken and crumble to mud.
I understood what was happening, though I didn’t say a word. No one did. It was the decision, the slow settling in on the single name. It was the death of our dreams, our youth, of possibility. There had always been hope here in the Neverworld, no matter how terrifying things got.
Now even that was disappearing.
Cannon ignored our entreaties to vote. He stayed slumped against the side of the boat, staring out, singing “Just Like Heaven” by the Cure under his breath, repeating the phrase “You, soft and lonely” over and over again.
Then, one wake, he actually snatched the wood from Kipling, and gnashing his teeth in frustration, he too carved what appeared to be someone’s initials into his hand. He did it rashly, blood oozing between his fingers as he collapsed back, staring out, exhausted.
That was when Whitley sat up, pointing into the fog.
It was the Keeper. He was rowing a boat toward us, wearing his dark suit and tie. He maneuvered alongside us. In spite of the hail, his boat jerking and bobbing against ours, the spray of water, he was remarkably dry.
“Congratulations,” he shouted, his voice scarcely audible over the thunder. “There is a consensus.”
“What?” gasped Whitley.
The Keeper only smiled, gripping the sides of the boat so as not to be tossed out.
He cleared his throat, straightening his tie, though almost immediately the wind flung it back over his shoulder.
“Life does not belong to you. It is the apartment you rent. Love without fear, for love is an airplane that carries you to new lands. There is a universe in silence. A tunnel to peace in a scream. Get a good night’s sleep. Laugh when you can. You are more magical than you know. Take your advice from the elderly and children. None of it is as crucial as you think, but that makes it no less vital. Our lives go on. And on. Look for the breadcrumbs.”
I think we were only half listening. We were all stupefied.
“It’s been a pleasure.” He bowed.
And just like that, he took up the oars again and rowed away.
The change was immediate. The water stilled. The storm tapered off. The roar of the waterfall faded to a whisper. The sun emerged out of the blue sky, glaring and hot. In fact, the scene so quickly transformed to a calm, serene lake with shimmering water that the memory of all I’d endured these past twelve wakes—or twelve million—seemed as hazy as some half-remembered dream.
It grew hot. Whitley and Kip stripped down to their underwear, and whooping and shouting, they cannonballed into the water as if it were the final hours of summer camp. Cannon, with a deadened look, threw himself headfirst over the side, and though I stood in alarm, calling out his name, he only kicked away from me on his back, his eyes closed. He seemed so tired. He seemed to want peace.
That left me with Martha. I had something important to say to her, and I might never have another chance.
“Martha.”
She was watching Whitley and Kipling laughing about something. She turned.
“We’ve never been friends. I just want to tell you that I understand why. And it’s okay.”
She stared at me.
“I was his girlfriend. Everyone was in love with Jim. It wasn’t so hard to imagine that you were too. I just wish we’d gotten to know each other better.”
She tilted her head, frowning.
“Jim? You think I was in love with Jim?”
I nodded. She smiled.
“I never loved Jim. It was you. What you did for me. You saved my life.”
She said it faintly. I wasn’t sure I’d heard her correctly.
“Do you remember that night freshman year, during the snowstorm? The night of Holiday Dance. The power went out, and you ran back to the dorm to change your dress. You found me reading in the common room. You laughed because I hadn’t noticed the window was wide open, and there was a snowdrift on the carpet. You stayed and talked with me, even though Jim was waiting for you.”
I remembered. It was the one time we’d had a good conversation.
“It wasn’t an accident the window was open.”
I stared at her.
“I’d been planning it for weeks. I’d done the math. Sixth floor. Larkin Hall. A simple acceleration due to gravity across seventy-six feet. Even landing in a snowdrift, my chance of survival was less than one percent.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“It was stupid. One of those dark spells of loneliness that I thought meant everything. Little did I know, it meant nothing. These monumental moments of our childhood, they’re just one bend in the river, a tight curve filled with boulders so you can’t see beyond. The river roars on across distances we can’t even imagine. I was about to jump when I heard someone coming. It surprised me, so I hesitated, threw myself on the couch, grabbed some random book, pretending to read. You came in, and you saved my life. So here, in the Neverworld, I had to save yours.”
I opened my mouth to say something, but no sound emerged.
“I thought for sure you were on to me,” she said, shaking her head. “Like, back at the Warwick police station, how I suddenly appeared downstairs with you. You knew I was the one who removed the papers from Jim’s case file, right?”
“What?” I whispered.
“It wasn’t the Masons. It was me. I hid the files in another box so they’d never find them.” She took a deep, unsteady breath. “Because it was all there. Jim’s texts to you. I didn’t want them to suspect you. That was why I was so against going back to Vulcanation. I didn’t want them to find out the truth. So as soon as we landed, I snuck away so I could dismantle the ladder from the Foreman’s Lookout before anyone else saw it. I climbed up fifty feet, got a million splinters, but I knew I had to present a compelling scenario with such assurance that they’d all be blind to the truth.”
“What?”
She studied me with a soft smile.
“You know, Beatrice. You were there.”
Chills ricocheted down my spine.
“I saw you. Coming back from the quarry.” She squeezed my hand. “You have nothing to feel guilty about. Whatever happened, I know you acted with a full heart. I never doubted you. And I never will.”
All my blood drained into my feet. I was going to be sick.
“Jim loved you. But he didn’t see you. He was incapable of that. You were the one to keep him propped up. You were his scaffolding. He could be riveting, and addictive. And you loved him, and we rarely see those we love as they are.” She sighed, hunching her shoulders. “That’s what killed me the most. Why I could never be your friend. Why I couldn’t stay around you. You made me so mad, Bee.”
She shook her head, staring at me, her face a wild pool of emotion barely contained.
“I’ve seen it before. It happened to my sister. She loved a boy, and that love made her put herself last and forget herself, and it killed her. Your love was that unquestioning. It made you do things that were dangerous. That ripped me up.”