I’d read every page of his notes a dozen times since I left Black River, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself from going over them again and again. I thought if I studied every word, every line of dialogue, every sketch, I might find some hint of the person Dad used to be. The one who’d trooped off to the diner with us on Sunday mornings and laughed as we all squeezed into the booth and paid for short stacks and bacon with handfuls of quarters. The one who wrote those early Brotherhood issues in the corner of the living room, while we played video games and Mom cheered us on.
No matter how hard I looked, that man wasn’t there. Maybe it was the unfairness of it that bothered me the most. Dad had dreamed about writing The Brotherhood of Wings ever since he’d been a little kid, dazzled by old Justice League and Legion of Super Heroes comics. It was his story. It wasn’t right that the last chapters were written by a complete stranger.
There was a hum as the air conditioning cycled on over my head. I slipped the folder into my pack, trading it for Freeman’s letter. Strange how heavy a couple sheets of paper and an envelope could be. I turned it over in my hands. What had Freeman called his library cards? Letters of transit? I guess this letter was that too. A passport to a different world. Another me.
I put the envelope back and went to the window. This one faced north, looking out over Central Park and Harlem and then past that to where the skyscrapers disappeared. I could just make out a few hills rising in the gray distance. Even though Black River was hours away, I picked out the tallest one and told myself it was Lucy’s Promise.
My hand went to the key hanging around my neck. It was cool and heavy. I closed my fingers around it and shut my eyes.
I was on the bridge over Black River Falls, looking up at Lucy’s Promise, its green lap and shoulders. And then I was in the camp, standing in the middle of the four cabins with the trail behind me and the woods all around. I could smell dark earth and rainwater and the papery scent of old leaves. Everything was just the way it used to be, except now it was all so empty and so quiet. The next thing I knew, I was flying off the mountain and over Black River. I saw everyone as they were in that moment. Freeman in his library, shuffling between stacks of books that weren’t really books but alternate realities cast in ink and paper. Mom kneeling in her garden, her hands in the earth, Fred by her side. I saw Hannah next. She was standing onstage, surrounded by velvety darkness, a silver crown circling her green hair. The kids were all around her. On the stage. In the wings. Watching from the front row, wide-eyed and grinning. I whispered their names one by one. Makela. Astrid. Tomiko. Isaac. Eliot. Ren. Crystal. Jenna. Carrie. DeShaun. Ricky. Margo. Benny.
Footsteps clicked down the hallway behind me and stopped on the other side of Dr. Lassiter’s door. Voices murmured. Someone laughed. I pulled Freeman’s journals out of my pack and stacked them on the desk. As the doorknob started to turn, I reached back in for Freeman’s letter. Dr. Lassiter stepped into the room. He was younger-looking than I expected. Tall and thin, with sandy hair and clear gray eyes that reminded me, with a jolt, of Greer’s.
“So,” he said, laying his hands flat on his desk. “What can I do for you, Mr. Cassidy?”
Dr. Lassiter smiled. The sky over his shoulder was a clear blue. Freeman’s letter slipped out of my fingers.
That was almost two weeks ago. Dr. Lassiter and I talked for a long time that first morning. I’m pretty sure he thought the whole thing was a prank until he read Freeman’s journals. He got excited after that and told me I needed to stay in town for a while so he could scan my brain and run all these tests on my blood. He keeps saying there aren’t any guarantees, but it’s clear he thinks he’s onto something.
Whatever happens, once he’s done with his work, we’re going to pack up all of Freeman’s journals and give them to this reporter he knows at the New York Times. Man, watching that bomb go off is going to be fun.
So how’s day-to-day life for a human test subject? Not too bad, actually. Lassiter got me a room on the very top floor of one of those midtown hotels that’s like a hundred stories tall and has all the cable TV and room service a guy could want. That’s where I am now, sitting at a desk by the window, looking out at the city and writing to you.
Every morning I leave the hotel and head to Lassiter’s office for whatever tests he’s come up with that day. When he’s done I go for a walk. I’ve probably walked the entire island of Manhattan at this point. It’s strange being surrounded by so many people again. Having concrete under my feet instead of dirt. Traffic lights and street signs instead of trees. More than once I’ve lost my bearings and turned to look for Lucy’s Promise—as if some part of me thinks I’ll find it towering over the Empire State Building or St. Patrick’s Cathedral—but of course it’s never there, and I have to find my way without it.