“Where’s Sofía?” I mutter, looking around. In my past two visions, she was there. She needed me. She must need me now. She must be at this camp.
I run up to the buildings, throwing open the doors and peering inside. They are empty, abandoned, decrepit. Sunlight leaks through the spaces between the warped boards of the walls, exposing rat droppings and a dead cockroach in the corner. But outside I can still hear the sounds of people laughing and talking, moving and shuffling through the buildings, including the ones I just left.
It’s creepy.
But no Sofía.
I return to the center of the camp. The only people I see are the kids playing. No adults, no counselors, or whoever else is supposed to be here. I grab the nearest kid, a little girl with Down syndrome. “Do you know Sofía?” I shout at her.
She starts crying. All around me, the camp becomes more and more present. Water fills the pool, the grass is greener, the buildings are brighter. More people appear in the background, including some adults who are starting my way. By touching the little girl, I’ve pulled myself into her time.
I shake her shoulders urgently. “Can you see me? Do you know Sofía?”
Her sobs turn louder.
“Bo?”
I turn just in time for my eyes to connect with Sofía’s. But before I can say anything, she points at something behind me and screams, “Run!”
I turn—
And then I’m ripped away. Not by a person, but by a force. By time.
I’m thrown back into a place I don’t recognize. There is no sick kids’ camp. There is no Berkshire. There’s not a chimney from the 1600s . . . or even a house. There’s only the island, bare, swampy, and loud with the sounds of waves crashing on the shore. A greenhead fly buzzes past me.
There’s a rustling in the tall grass. I stand completely still as a young deer creeps forward, her nose in the air, sniffing for danger. She turns and sees me. We stare at each other for a moment, then she darts around, her tail high and white, bounding away from me.
I feel the pull of time in my navel first, and before I even have a chance to call for Sofía, I’m dragged back and back again.
I’m at the camp again, but back when it first opened, when it was just for kids with polio. Then I’m at the Berk just as it was being built, before I’m thrown again to a time that may be the far future, the academy nothing but a crumbling foundation of brick, and the camp completely hidden by weeds and trees. I’m whipped around, backward and forward through time, spun across the island, a witness to its every incarnation.
And hidden in every moment of time . . . Sofía.
I see glimpses of dark hair, whispers of her pleading voice, or screams ripped from her mouth. Sometimes she’s invisible. Sometimes I can see her in the distance: running from something unknown, being held down by men from other times, walking silently into the ocean on her own, weighed down with stones. At one point I see nothing but a freshly dug, unmarked grave, but I know it’s hers. Every time I see, every time, she’s just out of my reach, just far enough away that I cannot save her.
I try to call up the timestream. I try to find the strings that will pull me to my own time or just anchor me to any time. I whirl faster and faster, coming apart at the seams. The island and its contents meld together, trees and grass and dirt and buildings nothing more than a green-and-brown blur. But the occasional faces I see in each time are sharp and unique, standing out against the whirl, but each one is unrecognizable. No Sofía. No Dr. Franklin or Ryan or Gwen or Harold. Not even one of the officials.
And then, out of the corner of my eye, I see a ponytail that’s familiar. I reach for it blindly, my fingers barely able to entwine into the girl’s hair.
Into my sister Phoebe’s hair.
When I open my eyes next, I’m in my old bedroom at my parents’ house. It looks exactly the same as when I was last at home, a sheet over the door, my notebook and the USB drive on my desk, but I search for some indication of how much time has passed . . . or has yet to pass.
The curtain blocking my door is swept to the side. Phoebe stands in the doorway, illuminated by the hallway light.
“About time you’re awake,” she says.
CHAPTER 42
How did I get here?
My parents and sister are acting like it’s perfectly normal for me to be here, now. My mom cooks dinner every night, beaming at me as she puts down a plate of pork tenderloin or beef kebobs or whatever other recipe she found online. My dad reads the newspaper. Phoebe watches TV, bringing me a bowl of popcorn like there’s nothing weird about the fact that I’m here.
But sometimes . . . sometimes they forget I’m here. When they look directly at me, they see and accept my presence. But if I stick to the walls and shadows, if I avoid their gaze, it’s like I’m as invisible as Sofía can be.
I don’t think I’m really here. I’m only half here, only made real when they remember I exist.