Page 93 of Under Story

“Just tell us what to do,” says Eli, and Laurel feels caught between them, understanding Eli’s impatience but wincing at the edge in his voice.

“Take your son to a hospital as soon as you find him,” the overtaker says.

Eli’s raised brow verges on sarcasm. “Anything else?”

“Don’t waste time.”

Laurel can tell that this is more than a platitude, but Eli seems to be reaching his limit.

“Mr. Nakamura,” she says, interjecting, “you mentioned that the overtakers can interpret texts. What did you mean by that?”

She isn’t sure that he’ll answer, because of Eli. But what irritation Mr. Nakamura felt, if he did so at all, is now imperceptible. He is tolerating Eli, she sees, as an adult does a child.

“Our texts document lineage. We call them the Maps.”

“Is that how you learned about us?”

For the first time, the overtaker pauses. Laurel watches him decide how much to tell her.

“The Maps trace the citizens of this world,” he says. “Sometimes, though, ink bleeds through from the other side.”

Water sluices down the windows, as though the house were a ship.

“Have you been to our world?” Laurel asks.

Mr. Nakamura shakes his head. “No. In fact, I’ve only met two other travelers—another couple. I was apprenticed to my son, and theirs was the first visit I did alone. I didn’t know whether to believe what I heard. I told my son, of course, and we tried to make sense of it together.”

Eli leans forward. “Where was their portal?”

“They didn’t use one.”

“Then how did they get here?”

“With a tool—some kind of instrument. I asked to see it, but they said they didn’t have it anymore. It was old nuclear technology, decommissioned before I was born.” Mr. Nakamura pauses. “Will you tell me about your portal?”

Eli looks from Laurel to the overtaker. He seems to be deciding whether to trust him. Faced with Eli’s hesitation, Laurel realizes that she does trust the overtaker, and perhaps without reason; there is nothing to account for it except her own instinctual affinity. But Eli’s choice is calculated: when he speaks again, it is with measured resignation, as if to fulfill his side of a bargain. He must recognize, too, that Mr. Nakamura could be a valuable ally.

“Laurel discovered it,” he says.

Both men turn to her. Laurel tells the overtaker about the Arc. Then she describes her dream about the spaceship, and how the shape in the window cued her to the basin. Finally she explains what the basin looked like in real life: the rocky curve; the octopus that led her down one side.

“Where was Eli?” asks the overtaker, who has become vigilant. It occurs to Laurel that he has not been truly interested in what they’ve had to say until this moment.

“Coming down, toward me, from the other end of the basin.”

“You met in the middle.” Mr. Nakamura’s nod suggests some private confirmation. “Is that where you found the portal?”

“I think so,” Laurel says. “The bottom of the basin was filled with octopus ink. I’ve always wondered why.”

“Maybe the octopi detected something strange about that area. They might have inked it out of wariness. Animals sense so much more than we do,” says the overtaker.

Outside the living room, lightning streaks, brief as the flash of a camera. Mr. Nakamura’s gaze is intent.

“Go to Michigan. Find your child,” he says. “Bring blankets, to keep him warm, and learn CPR to revive him. Memorize the route to the nearest hospital. Practice this—all of it—until it feels like second nature.”

Laurel thanks him in return, and Eli nods in agreement. While Eli carries the teacups to the kitchen, Laurel leads Mr. Nakamura to the entryway. There she lifts his coat from the stand. The garment is much heavier than she imagined, and the nap is finer than velvet. The overtaker shudders, and she sees that she has disobeyed some code—that the garment is as personal to him as his own skin.

Laurel feels mortified, but as before, the reaction passes: Mr. Nakamura returns to his equilibrium, pardoning her ignorance. She can’t shake the sense that there is something more than human about him, though he, too, is a citizen—a parent.