Page 106 of Under Story

“Eventually sounds good,” she said, but Eli didn’t smile.

“If you regret it,” he said, looking ahead, “just tell me.”

“Is that how you feel?”

Eli pulled up to a red light. “I’m not the one who’s avoiding the subject.”

“The thing is…” Laurel began, and stopped.

Eli looked at her expectantly.

“The thing is—” she repeated, but then Silas shrieked, which was just as well, for she had begun the sentence without knowing how to end it.

An elephantine package waited on the porch: the crib that Eli had overnighted. Silas One had slept upstairs, but they put Silas Two in Eli’s office, which was more wheelchair-accessible. While Eli assembled the crib, Laurel fed Silas his next bottle.

“You should take the upstairs bedroom,” she said. “I can sleep in here.”

“A blow-up mattress won’t fit,” Eli said. “The crib takes up too much space.”

“That’s okay. I’ll take the couch.”

Eli looked at the sofa. It was a two-seater, and the arms were made of wood. She knew what he was thinking: the bed upstairs—a king—fit both of them.

“Really,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

Laurel had never been so emotionally inarticulate. Any deeper feelings were muffled by a sense of threat. It was as though she had received a mysterious gift—but, afraid of what might be in store, she could not bring herself to open it.

There was also the question of bandwidth. She swung between rapture and exhaustion. Laurel and Eli decided to trade night duty. One stayed with Silas, and the other slept upstairs. Instinctively, each of them lay on their old side of the bed.

Eli poured himself into research: his purpose was to bring Silas home. He still hadn’t found relevant data from any other detectors, so he wrote to physicists whose doubles he’d known in their universe. He was certain they would help, but the replies he received—if he did so at all—were brisk and apologetic. They were running their own experiments and writing their own books. Laurel was not as surprised by this as Eli seemed to be. She had met plenty of scientists who subscribed to the Great Man theory of history, and though this was not the time to say so, he had not been so different.

Now he pivoted to scrutinize the other Eli’s book and notes. It was possible, he thought, that they had different but complementary knowledge—or that portals worked differently in this universe. The basement became his workspace. One afternoon, while Silas napped, Laurel walked downstairs to see him.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Eli said when he saw her, and she remembered the days he’d spent searching for WIMPs.

“We have plenty of time,” she said. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“Too late. I’ve had a migraine for days.”

“Eli,” said Laurel, softly.

She kneaded the back of his neck. Eli made a little groan. Her body responded to the sound, and to the act of touching him. Her mind remained inscrutable. Laurel felt embers of the old love, yes, but she also knew that they would have to start over again. What they had now was not new love but some mixture of lust, relief, attachment, history, and confusion. As she walked back upstairs, she wondered if it had been easier to feign a relationship than it would be to attempt a real one.

—

In May, Laurel returns to campus. She and Eli were granted three months of parental leave. Laurel would gladly have taken three years. She can’t muster her interest in teaching. Having waited so long for Silas, it seems absurd to spend any time apart, but Eli’s work could be their ticket home. Until they leave this universe, they have to keep their jobs.

Science Hall has the same architecture as it does in Laurel’s universe, but this one was built more recently: the locks don’t stick, and the elevators never jam. Because most students are over sixty, all doorways accommodate wheelchairs, and presentations are accompanied by large-print captions. One year earlier, a student group advocated for designated quiet rooms: stimulation-free spaces, they said, would be helpful for neurodivergent students as well as those with age-related limitations. Even Laurel has taken respite in the one in Science Hall, which features neat bins of eye masks and earplugs.

Laurel’s office is on the second floor. In her world, it was Gloria’s. Laurel feels undeserving, but she does enjoy meeting there with students. A graduating senior gave her an art piece made of spore prints. Laurel hung it over the desk, which began to feel like hers. She found an armchair on Craigslist and assembled an informal lending library. The books span a range of genres, but they all feature fungi. Atop the bookcase, she keeps an electric kettle, a pot of sugar, mugs, and coffee.

Today Laurel has come to clear the cobwebs. She finds an unemptied mug with a teabag inside; someone must have put it down behind the armchair, and an intriguing patch of Aspergillus has composed. As a robotic vacuum cleans the floor, she sends her syllabi to the printer. Almost everything in the antiuniverse is digital—Laurel’s students, who grew up with screens, are more technologically literate than she is—but she still keeps hard copies on hand.

Campus is a ghost town during summer, so Laurel is surprised to hear footsteps. Each is punctuated by the rhythm of a cane. The person who appears looks somewhere near eighty. Her hair is shorter than Laurel last saw it—the cut is almost gamine—but she would know the woman anywhere.

“Professor Salter,” the visitor begins at the same time as Laurel says, “Gloria?”

Laurel stares beseechingly, hoping against logic that Gloria will know her, too. Gloria pauses. Her eyes are wizened but intrigued.