“You don’t hear that sound? Like a high-pitched whimper. Y’know, like a dog?”
At that, the woman raised an eyebrow and lowered her sharp chin. Ellis was still staring at the floor of the plane. “Ohh . . . you have a puppy down there, don’t you?” she asked, motioning downward as if she were pointing through the floor to the cargo hold.
“There it is again!” Ellis insisted.
“Sweetie, I got a mopey cocker spaniel at home. Every time I take her on the plane, I swear I hear her crying for me. And then someone’s kind enough to tell me I’m just being nuts.”
For the first time, Ellis turned toward the woman. And grinned. “I’m just being nuts, aren’t I?”
“Totally understandable,” she said, tapping him on the shoulder. “You’re sweet for worrying, though. You really love your pup, huh?”
“She means a great deal to me,” Ellis said. With a deep breath, he stared out the open window at the tiny lights that dotted the landscape.
“We’re beginning our descent into Cleveland,” the pilot announced overhead.
“By the way, for your pup,” the woman next to Ellis began. “Have you tried giving her a sedative? That always calms mine before a big flight.”
“No, I need her alert,” Ellis explained as he reached for his leather diary. “She’s about to have a very busy night.”
44
I think it’s glued shut,” Serena calls down from the top of the ladder.
“Hit it again,” my dad says.
“Not too hard,” Johnsel adds.
“Let me just help you,” I say.
That’s all she needs. Ramming her palm up toward the ceiling, she slams the square piece of wood that covers the entrance to the attic. It looks thin, like balsa wood. From the thud and the pain on her face, it’s not.
“There you go. It moved,” my father says.
“It didn’t move,” she shoots back.
“I think it did,” I say. “Now use the flashlight to hit it.”
She looks again, knowing I’m right. To be honest, I should be the one up there, but the hole’s so small—she’s got the best chance of squeezing through.
“It’s good we brought her along, huh?” my dad whispers, but I don’t answer.
Serena winds up again with the flashlight Johnsel gave her and grips the ladder for support. On three—one . . . two . . .
The base of the flashlight plows into the wood. There’s a loud pop, then a rip as the square piece flips upward like a reverse trapdoor. The only reward is a lungful of dust and a light shower of pebbles and chunks of plaster that rain over all of us. According to Johnsel, the house was built in 1911. Tastes like it.
Waving the dust away, Serena stares up at the square black hole of the attic. It’s teeny. Barely bigger than a phone book.
“Careful,” I call out.
She steps up on the top rung of the ladder, raises her arms, and boosts herself easily into the darkness.
“Hoooo—that was anticlimactic,” Johnsel blurts.
Wasting no time, I leap toward the ladder and scale it as fast as I can.
“What’re you doing?” my father asks.
“She made it easy. I’ll fit,” I tell him as I look up at the black square hole. There’s a flicker of white light inside, from the flashlight. “Serena, anything up there?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer.
As I climb closer to the top rung, bits of dust continue to tumble my way.
“You’re not gonna fit,” my dad says.
Only one way to find out.
I put my arms straight up.
“Just like Superman,” Johnsel jokes. No one laughs.
I thread my arms through the hole, then my head, as I slowly extend my knees. The darkness descends like a noose.
“You’re too big,” my father warns.
He’s wrong. The hole swallows everything above my chest. I feel around, palming the dusty floor of the attic. All I need to do is boost myself up. But just as I push off the top rung, something catches my back . . . or, more specifically, my backpack, with the comic inside. Dammit. I’m definitely too big.
“Told you,” my dad calls out as my feet kick wildly from the ceiling.
A bright light blinds me. “Throw the backpack up here,” Serena says.
“Just drop it—I’ll catch it,” my dad promises from below.
The lady or the tiger.
I choose neither.
Thrashing wildly, I’m halfway through. The edge of the hole digs into my stomach. I don’t care what it takes. I squirm and shimmy like a worm as splinters and sharp rocks bite at my belly. My backpack tugs like a leash. Above me, Serena grips my left bicep and starts the tug-of-war. I wriggle and plant my elbows. She digs in her feet and jerks harder. The hole pinches my rib cage. The leash stays taut, pulling and yanking me . . . and then . . . then it isn’t.
Like a baby shooting from the birth canal, I fly forward as Serena tumbles back on her ass. The flashlight zigzags as she falls. My stomach scrapes across the attic floor, leaving a wide, swerving wake through the dust.
“You okay!?” my dad calls out as he hears the crash. He’s tempted to join us himself, but he knows he won’t fit.
I’m still catching my breath, which I can see in the beam of light from above. There’s no insulation. It’s freezing up here. Slowly, my eyes adjust to the darkness, but I don’t need to see Serena to know what she’s thinking. “Go ahead—say the line,” I tell her. “I’m more stubborn than my dad.”
She climbs to her feet, brushes off the dust, and stays hunched to avoid hitting the attic’s low, slanted ceiling. But she’s not the least bit annoyed. “You really believe your father’s stubborn?”
“C’mon . . . the way he insisted on coming to Cleveland . . . then held his breath like a fifth grader so I couldn’t say no to you coming, too?”
“That’s not stubborn, Cal. Your dad’s terrified.”
“He’s not alone,” I shoot back. “If Ellis made that next flight, he’ll be here any—”
“He’s not terrified of Ellis,” Serena says. “Your father’s terrified of you.” She doesn’t yell it at me. She’s concerned. Almost sad.
Down on my knees, I take a deep breath of sandy air as dozens of small stones stab through my pants. “Me? You’re joking, right?”
She shakes her head, and the beam from the flashlight shakes with her, tracing the inky air. But she never loses sight of what we’re here for. Pointing the light across the empty room, she’s already on the hunt. “You need to understand, Cal—in this world, we’re not humans having a divine experience. We’re divine beings having a human experience.”
“Yeah, I took yoga once, too.”
“See, there it is again: That’s what he has to fight.” Above our heads, the rafters crisscross like wooden monkey bars. On our left, the eroded brick chimney rises through the room and out the roof. The floor’s so thick with dust, it looks like the moon—and with each step, a cloud of it explodes upward. Serena keeps heading deeper, ducking lower and lower until she’s chicken-walking toward the far corner of the attic. But she never slows down. It’s amazing, really. No fear.
“Think about it, Cal. In this life, y’ever notice that you face the same challenges again and again? We all do. They’re challenges to your soul. We repeat them until we face them and master them. Yes, we all have free will, but there’re divine patterns out there, and the battle is to see them.”
“Oh, okay,” I say, crouching behind her as she shines the light and draws a horizontal line across the baseboard where the roof and floor meet. There’s a few ancient mousetraps and cobwebs and some tiny black droppings, but like the rest of the attic, it’s empty. “So instead of searching for old comic books, we’re now searching for God’s patterns?”