“That’s why you’re the boss here.” Josie shakes her head. “Only you are weird enough to love storms at sea.”

He smiles with genuine pride. “As to the count of weirdness, I plead guilty.”

Now that he mentions it, the floor is swaying slightly; I realize the Salacia must have been built with a certain amount of give, so that it can work with the tides and currents instead of constantly being battered by them. Normally I’d be wretched with motion sickness, but this Marguerite must have gotten her sea legs years ago.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” Mom says to me. “Are you sure you’re all right? You’ve been a little off all day.” The back of her hand finds my forehead, checking for fever as if I were still five years old.

“Just thinking. That’s all.” I miss my real Mom, back home. A lump rises in my throat, but I manage to keep it together. I don’t want to spoil the evening.

After we eat, Josie asks me if I want to watch the surfing competition with her. I find it hard to believe I care about surfing a whole lot more in this dimension than I do at home—which is to say, at all—but any distraction seems like a good idea. So I sit beside her on the sofa while Dad starts on the dishes, but when he starts to hum, I once again have to struggle against the urge to cry.

Josie squints at me. “Mom’s right. You’re weirder than usual today.”

“Ha ha.” I brush my hair back and try to act casual. And then I remember the T-shirt Theo wore: The Gears.

My mind is working fast, comparing the knowledge of different dimensions.

The Beatles never existed here. The Gears were a band featuring Paul McCartney and George Harrison—not John Lennon. But John Lennon is the one who wrote “In My Life” for the Beatles. I’m sure of it. That song doesn’t exist in this dimension.

So how is Dad humming it?

I think back to what Paul told me in San Francisco. He’d found the dimension that was spying on our own, and proved what Conley was up to. Yet he wouldn’t come back with me because now he had learned something else, something important. Something he couldn’t tell me, because it would be too horrible if he were wrong . . .

When we travel into a new dimension, our bodies are “no longer observable.” At the time I left home, the authorities hadn’t yet pulled Dad’s body from the river. They were dredging for him then—dipping nets into the water, sending divers down into the muck. I was hardly able to think about it, because the images were so horrible. Worse was the idea of Mom having to go identify the body after it had been in the river for a few days, after it no longer looked like Dad, or like anything human.

But what if he wasn’t lost in the current? What if his body was simply not observable, because he was kidnapped into another dimension?

What if Dad isn’t dead? What if he’s right here?

“Marguerite?” Josie copies Mom’s hand-to-the-forehead move. “You’re seriously zoned out.”

I can’t even bother with an excuse. “Be right back.”

Heart pounding, I walk into the kitchen area where Dad is finishing up. He gives me a pleasant, somewhat distracted smile. “Don’t tell me you’re still hungry.”

“Can we talk?”

“Of course.”

“Not here. In the corridor, maybe.”

Despite his evident confusion, he says, “All right.”

Nobody pays any attention to our stepping outside our quarters; Mom is in the bedroom she shares with Dad, and Josie is already concentrating on her computer again. The corridors of the Salacia aren’t necessarily private, but most people seem to be eating dinner now, which means my father and I are alone. Our only witnesses are the fish swimming by the porthole window.

Dad’s not wearing a Firebird. Then again, if he’s been kidnapped, someone brought him here and then stranded him. Without his own Firebird, Dad not only wouldn’t be able to get back home; he wouldn’t be able to receive any reminders. He would have no idea who he is. My father would be only a glimmer within this version of Dr. Henry Caine—a part of his subconscious.

The part that would still hum a song by the Beatles.

“Is everything okay, sweetheart?” Dad folds his arms in front of his chest. “What’s this about?”

“I need you to trust me for a minute.” My voice has begun to shake. “Okay?”

By now Dad looks deeply worried, but he nods.

I take the Firebird from around my neck and put it around Dad’s. He raises an eyebrow, but I ignore him, instead going through the motions that will set a reminder. I drop it against his chest, realizing I’m holding my breath—

“Gahhh—dammit!” Dad says, staggering backward as he grabs the Firebird. But then he freezes. First he slowly looks down at the Firebird in his hand, recognizing it, then lifts his face to mine. “Marguerite?” he gasps. “Oh, my God.”

It’s the same face, the same eyes, but I see the difference. I know my dad.

Then I’m laughing and crying at the same time, but it doesn’t matter, because Dad’s hugging me, and we’re together, and he’s alive.

And now I know why Paul brought us here.

25

“DEAR LORD.” DAD RUNS HIS HANDS THROUGH HIS HAIR, AS absolutely bewildered as anyone would be to wake up in another dimension. “How long has it been?”

“Almost a month. It’ll be a month on January fifth, so, three days from now.”