Page 49 of Under Story

It seems an even trade.

“I promise,” says Laurel.

In preparation for the feast, Jules found a set of night-lights at Skua. Now he walks around the galley, switching them on. Ahead of Laurel and Nita, a plastic rabbit glows.

“Your son,” says Nita. “How did he die?”

“In the water,” says Laurel.

—

They wake to the smell of coffee and bacon. The morning stewards ferry chafing dishes piled with pancakes. An elderly zoologist drifts by in a nightgown. Laurel scans the galley, but she still doesn’t see Eli. She fills two mugs of coffee and walks to the dorm. As she passes her room, Laurel thinks of stopping to change her pajamas or brush her hair, but she decides against it. Eli has seen her on countless mornings just like this.

It takes a moment for him to open the door. His hair is flattened on one side, and he squints without his glasses.

“I didn’t see you at the feast,” Laurel says.

“Stupid virus,” says Eli. “I fell asleep before it started.”

“I’m sorry. It’s a nasty one, isn’t it? I brought you coffee.”

She hands it to him: black with a dash of sugar, the way he likes it.

“That’s nice of you,” he says. Uncertainly he adds: “Did you want to come in?”

The room is messier than she expected: clothes are piled on the desk chair, papers on the floor. A blue-and-yellow backpack slumps against the bed. On the windowsill is a photo of Silas in a small wooden frame.

Laurel hovers just inside the door. She feels shy, almost formal, conscious of being a guest in his space.

“Nita’s willing to help. So I’m going to do it,” she says. “I know the whole thing sounds preposterous. I’m not sure I can explain it.”

Eli moves the clothes from his desk chair and sits. When he speaks, she can tell that he’s choosing his words more carefully than he did in the library.

“I know you believe that we can find Silas. But if we’re being rational, that’s incredibly unlikely. We might not survive the portal, assuming that there is one. In my model, the antiuniverse is made of antimatter. We aren’t. We could annihilate on contact.”

Laurel balks. “Do you think that’s a realistic possibility?”

“I think it’s the most realistic possibility. And even if I’m wrong, we don’t know what’s on the other side.”

“But you said that the same physical laws should hold true. Experientially, at least, wouldn’t the antiuniverse feel like this one?”

“Laurel, we don’t know whether the antiuniverse exists, much less how it feels.” Eli sighs. “But okay. For the sake of conversation, let’s say that it does. What’s our plan?”

Laurel notes that he’s used the word our. She sits down on the floor and hugs her knees, thinking. “We use the antiuniverse like a time machine.”

Eli raises his eyebrows.

“We dive into the basin,” she continues. “We figure out how to cross over. Time moves backward in the antiuniverse, like you thought. We stay there until July 2014, before Silas died—before we ever left for Michigan. And then we come back to this universe.”

“How?”

“Through the portal, if it works.”

“But the anomaly only appeared in 2016.”

“The basin could still be there, though.” Laurel’s gut pushes back: the basin, she suspects, won’t work without the Arc, just as the brain cannot survive without the heart. “Either way, there must be other portals. You could look for them.”

Eli snorts. “Sure. I’d just have to get hired in another universe.”