Page 177 of Under Story

Laurel’s body is shaking.

“Wake up,” says Louis, gripping her shoulders.

The others crowd around, blurry. Maisie supplies Laurel’s glasses. Morning light seeps through the basement’s garden-level window.

Eli touches her cheek. “What was your letter?”

The others have written theirs down, each on its own piece of paper. Laurel has to work to put it together, like batting smoke into a shape. Jules gives her a pad and a pen. Laurel writes the letter G.

“Okay,” says Nita. “We have six consonants and three vowels, people.”

Noah spreads them out on the floor.

W N E U G G T I S

“I don’t get it,” says Louis.

“Let’s shuffle them,” says Nita.

“We sing tug,” says Charlie.

“Get sun wig?” asks Eli.

Two hours later, Maisie assembles twin us egg, the most coherent phrase yet. This makes Laurel think of her double, but it still seems more descriptive than instructive.

“I don’t know, guys,” says Eli when they break for lunch. “None of these seem right.”

“What about mine?” asks Louis, who has been arguing for gig sew nut since midmorning.

Riordan yawns. “Maybe we should try again tonight.”

“No way,” says Maisie. “We’re close. I can feel it.”

They soldier on, rearranging, sounding out. Laurel has never looked for so long at single letters. Eventually, they become no more than figures: the line of the I, the snake of the S, the N a zigzag, the U a bucket. Charlie recommends a walk.

The heat of high summer has passed; though the days are long, the air has cooled. The hydrangeas are already turning into wasabi-green buds.

Riordan kneels beside a manhole. Something wriggles in the grate.

“Twig.” He reaches out to free it: a tiny stalk, flexing in the breeze. “If we subtract that from our letters, what do we have left?”

Nita does the calculation first. “U, S, G, E, N.”

“Us…gen,” says Riordan. “Gen…us.”

“Twig…gen…us,” says Charlie.

Jules tilts his head. “Twig genus?”

By now, the others have gathered around Riordan.

“What is a genus, exactly?” asks Zachary.

“It’s a group of related things,” says Nita.

“Related things…” says Riordan, musing. “Things that are related to twigs.” He looks at Laurel and laughs. “You know what that makes me think of? The book your dad used to love—the one about camouflage. There was a whole section on animals that look like sticks.”

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