In Thomas’s world, they called it the analog problem. Put simply, analogs—doubles, for lack of a better word—from different universes could not touch. If analogs did make physical contact, one of them would be ejected from the universe they both stood in, thrown through the tandem to restore the balance. Normally, it would be the analog who didn’t belong; universes knew their own, and called for them across the wilds of hyperspace. But Thomas needed to stay on Earth. He couldn’t be the one thrown back. Around his wrist, he wore a bracelet, a slim, close-fitting thing of shining silver that would allow him to stay.
Thomas had prepared his world for Grant. On the other side of the tandem, three agents of the King’s Elite Service lay in wait; they would take him into custody and keep him safe until the time came to return him to his home world. All Thomas had to do now was get close enough to Grant to administer the touch that would toss him through the tandem like a rag doll and deposit him on the other side to fill the slot Thomas had left vacant, if everything went to plan. But Thomas had learned long ago that such things rarely did.
Grant looked Thomas up and down, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. “Whoa,” he breathed. Thomas’s veins thrummed with adrenaline and power. A faint singed smell hung in the air, as if lightning had struck somewhere nearby. Electricity danced in Thomas’s fingertips. This was it. The time was now. All he needed to do was take one step, and he would be close enough to touch Grant. Then it would be over, and his real mission would begin.
But Thomas was paralyzed. He hadn’t given much thought to what it would be like when he finally met his analog. There were things he knew about Grant, facts and dates he’d been forced to memorize in order to ensure he could effectively impersonate him, but none of that information was relevant now. He had so many questions for Grant, and about him. He wanted to know, for the first time, what it was like to actually be Grant, to live in his skin and see the world—his world—the way he saw it.
Dr. Moss had tried to warn him about this. “Don’t believe for a second that just because you know what he is that it won’t affect you,” Mossie had said, but Thomas hadn’t listened. And now it was too late. There was no more time. Grant Davis had to go.
“Who are you?” Grant demanded, his voice tight with fear and anger. Thomas hesitated before replying, not sure what to tell him, knowing that he shouldn’t tell him anything at all. During that moment’s pause, so slight a mouse couldn’t slip through it, Grant took advantage of Thomas’s uncertainty and lunged at him.
Grant’s fingers closed around the collar of Thomas’s sweatshirt, which was identical to his own. “Who are you?” he shouted. There was terror in his eyes.
“I’m you,” Thomas told him with grave sincerity. The answer threw Grant off, and Thomas sprang into action, wrenching out of Grant’s grasp and pushing him away. The other boy stumbled backward, but only for a second, then sprang up again; this time, Grant’s closed fist connected with Thomas’s jaw.
When Thomas opened his eyes, he was lying flat on the concrete sidewalk, and he was alone. He was more than alone; there was no sign, none at all, that Grant had ever been there in the first place.
He picked himself up off the ground and touched his jaw gingerly. The blow had been glancing; it wouldn’t leave much of a mark. Grant had some of Thomas’s own strength and reflexes, but he was untrained and he certainly had nothing close to Thomas’s own experience with hand-to-hand combat. If only Thomas had not hesitated, Grant wouldn’t have gotten in a punch at all. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride for his analog. After all, he’d done what Thomas himself would’ve done. He’d fought for his life.
Bixler Park was quiet and empty. Thomas was tired, an unusual feeling for him, so he shoved his hands into his pockets and jogged up South Kenwood toward the warm yellow light of home.
ONE
“What are you reading?”
I glanced up from my book to see Grant Davis towering over me. I turned my head, trying to figure out who he was talking to, because it couldn’t be me. Grant Davis hadn’t spoken more than three words to me in the whole time we’d been in school together. But the room was empty except for him and me. I must’ve looked completely baffled; Grant laughed and flopped down into the chair beside mine. This is weird, I thought in passing, but I decided to go with it. How often does the most popular guy in school show up in your favorite bookshop and start talking to you?
Grant Davis was, to put it bluntly, the finest human specimen that had ever come into existence. I’d had a crush on him since I was in the fourth grade and he was in fifth. It burned pretty hot for a while there in late middle school, but over the years it had been reduced to a few smoldering coals. My heart gave a small, involuntary flutter as I took him in out of the corner of my eye. Grant was just my type—tall and broad-shouldered, with eyes the color of new spring grass, strong, perfect features, and thick blond hair that always looked slightly rumpled, as if he’d just rolled out of bed. But he wasn’t just handsome; I knew a lot of cute guys I’d never in a million years want to talk to. Grant was also good-natured and charming, beloved by students, teachers, and administrators alike. He always seemed so laid-back and carefree. Even now, he sprawled in his seat, looking relaxed and comfortable, while I sat there tense and nervous, clutching a worn paperback edition of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night like it was the only thing in the world I owned.
“What are you looking for, Sasha?” he asked, with an amused glint in his eye.
“Whoever it is you’re talking to,” I told him, raising my eyebrows.
“I’m talking to you.” He flung his arms outward, gesturing around the room. We were in the reading lounge of 57th Street Books, tucked away deep in the store’s underground, labyrinthine stacks. It was my favorite bookshop in Hyde Park, a quaint old university neighborhood on the South Side of Chicago where I lived with my grandfather. I almost never ran into anyone I knew at the shop, and seeing Grant among the bookshelves was kind of like spotting a polar bear sunning itself on a Malibu beach. “Do you notice anyone else around? I think we might be the only two people here.”
“That’s what I like about this place,” I said. “It’s usually so quiet.”
“Is that a hint?” Grant asked, his tone still playful.
“Maybe.” I tried unsuccessfully to suppress a smile. “What are you doing here?” The fact that he had no books in his possession hadn’t escaped my attention.
“Hey.” He affected a hurt tone. “I love to read. Books are my life.”
I shot him a dubious look. “The last time we took an English class together, you tried to turn in a book report on The Matrix.”
“Fair enough,” he replied, grinning. “In my defense, I had it on pretty good authority that The Matrix was based on a book.”