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Rain crashes down hard and fast; it spurs me into action. With my heart going punk in my chest, I tear up the road, putting as much distance as I can between me and whatever that scary weirdness was back there. Only when I’m safely around the turnoff do I look back: In the downpour, the burning fields are smoking down to charred ruins. The fire gods and the big dude are gone. And up in the sky, there’s nothing to see but clouds and rain.
The empty oblong bubble with its question-mark icon stares back at me, white and unknowing. “Trust me,” I want to tell it. “I don’t even know how to start this search.” Humungous, futuristic knight dudes standing in the middle of the road? Menacing, seven-foot-tall fire giants? Black holes over suburbia?
Maybe it was a tornado or some optical illusion or that pot was laced with some Grade-A Hydroponic Strange. Under the glare of the computer screen, I type in “bad pot experiences.” What comes up is page after page of people who’ve passed out at parties and had Asswipe written on their foreheads in permanent marker, kids who ended up getting busted by the ’rents and grounded for life. Nothing about what I’ve seen. I hit Refresh, and suddenly, a new link pops up: www.followthefeather.com. And there’s a picture of one of those weird feathers like I found in my room.
My mouth is so dry it’s like my saliva’s been burgled. Finally, I tap the bar, and the screen goes dark for a second. An image of the It’s a Small World ride comes up. The song bleeds from my speakers. A line of script floats to the middle of my screen and settles into focus: Follow the feather. Beside it is a little feather icon. I click on it, and a video clip plays.
A guy in a lab coat sits at a desk cram-packed with stuff—papers; a strange light-up toy that looks like it’s part seashell, part pinwheel, with little tubes all over it; a framed photo of a smiling lady with light hair and freckles; an old-fashioned radio. I recognize the song playing—something by the Copenhagen Interpretation. A shelf behind the guy’s head hosts an impressive snow globe collection. He leans in to adjust something on the camera, his face going blurry. Then he’s back and smiling, hands clasped.
“Hello,” he says. He has a nice voice. Soothing. It’s hard to say how old he is, older than my dad, though. He’s Asian, with long, salt-and-pepper hair, and bushy black eyebrows framing eyes that seem both exhausted and surprised, like one of those people who’s seen just about everything and still can’t believe it.
“I will find it. Time, death—these are only illusions. Our atoms, the architecture of the soul, live on. I’m sure of it.” He holds up the weird toy. “Somewhere in those eleven dimensions we cannot yet see, lie the answers to the greatest questions of all—why are we here? Where do we come from? Where do we go next? Is there a God, and if so, is He unconcerned or just really, really, really busy?”
There’s a blip, and the video jumps to some footage of people playing soccer on a field near wind turbines. Click. Quick cut to the same guy with his arm around the smiling, freckle-faced woman from the photo on his desk. She presses her lips to his.
“Ah,” he laughs. “There’s eternity—in a kiss!”
The video cuts out for a second, and when it comes back, it’s the same man, but he’s older now, his long hair gone mostly to silver, his eyes wearier. The Copenhagen Interpretation song still plays. He holds up a big, pinkish-white feather.
“‘Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.’ Emily Dickinson. Why must we die when everything within us yearns to live? Do our atoms not dream of more?” His hand closes around something that looks like a ticket or key card. “Tonight, I embark for other worlds. Searching for proof. For hope. For a reason to go on. Or a reason to end …”
That’s it. There’s nothing more. I try to play it again, and all I get is the bit that plays at the end of every ConstaToons cartoon: a picture of a twinkling galaxy and suddenly, the roadrunner pokes his head right through space, puncturing a hole in it. He holds up a sign that says MEEP-MEEP. THAT’S IT FOR NOW, KIDS.
The next thing I know, a siren’s blasting in my ears.
“Cameron!” someone shouts, competing against the brutal electronic scream that won’t stop. “Cameron!”
With a gasp, I wake, drenched in sweat.
“Cameron! We’ll be late!” Mom. Yelling. Downstairs.
The alarm clock’s still shrieking. Digital numbers assault me with their red blinking: 7:55 a.m. I’m in my bed, still dressed in yesterday’s clothes.
“Be right there!” I punish the alarm clock with a hard whap. I feel like shit. My clean clothes are in a heap on the floor. When I reach for them, every muscle aches. Definitely a school nurse day.
Downstairs, the house whirrs with busy household noises, all that to-ing and fro-ing people seem to love so much. Mom’s more frazzled than usual. She’s wearing one earring and searching for the other. “Cameron, we have to go, honey! Grab a breakfast bar.”
“Not hungry,” I say, taking half of Jenna’s bagel from her plate.
Jenna snatches it back. “Mom, could you please remind your son that he’s not to have any interaction with me?”
Mom throws up her hands. “Could we not do this today? I have a very important meeting with the Dean.”
“He started it.” Jenna pouts.
The kitchen smells like smoke, and for a minute, I panic, remembering my pot-induced episode from last night. “Mom, you left the toaster on. It’s burning.”
“No I didn’t. Where on earth is that earring?”
“Mom-dude. I can smell it overheating. It’s making me nauseated.”
Jenna holds up her bagel for inspection. “Hello! Not toasted, okay?”
“Ha! Made you talk!” I’d gloat some more but even that exchange hurt my brain.
“You guys, please. Jenna, could you help me find my earring?”
The stench of burning plastic is getting stronger. I know Mom has used the toaster and forgotten to unplug it. If it overheats, Dad will have a cow.
