“Hey, I don’t think you’re supposed to be doing that,” the man behind me says as I clamber over the side and step out onto a small platform. I turn around as carefully as I can on the narrow ledge, trying not to lose my footing. The narrator’s voice thunders in the dark like some forgotten god. I push through the door, and the sudden whiteness nearly blinds me.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Wherein I Visit Tomorrowland
It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust. Far above me I can see the grinding motion of huge gears in operation, keeping the ride going. Behind me is the door. Ahead of me is a long tunnel.
I start walking. “Dulcie?” I call out. “Dulcie!”
The tunnel winds around and stops at a door with a big X on it. I push it open. Inside is a stark white laboratory with a ginormous movie screen. A messy desk and chair sit in the middle. I’ve seen a glimpse of this room before, on my computer. Followthefeather.com. There’s a man in a lab coat sitting in a folding chair at the desk. He’s reading a tabloid and eating a bowl of jelly beans. On the screen behind him is the exact same image.
“Dr. X?” I whisper.
He looks down at me from the screen, and in person, squints. “Yes? Can I help you?” He’s smaller than he seemed in the videos and pictures, but otherwise he looks exactly the same, like he hasn’t aged a day. A small, tinny radio plays the Copenhagen Interpretation.
“I—I’ve been looking for you.”
“You have?”
“Yes. Yes!” I say, laughing with some weird mix of relief and happiness. “I’ve been reading the papers and checking the personals, looking for clues and signs, making sense of the random—all to get to you.”
Dr. X’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. “Why?”
“You’re Dr. X,” I say. “You’re going to cure me.”
“I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s Cameron. Cameron Smith.”
“And why should I save you, Cameron Smith? What makes you so special?” Dr. X asks in a tired voice.
“I … I don’t know. It’s just that Dulcie said you would and it’d be kind of terrible if—”
Dr. X interrupts me. “Terrible things happen all the time. Don’t you know that? And there’s no reason, no reason at all. No god holding us in his hands like a benevolent parent. This suffering is meaningless. Well, someone should do something about it! There should be some way to stop the pain, the loneliness, the uncertainty. And I’ve found the answer—a way to stop death. Go on. Pull that curtain over there.”
My footsteps echo in the mostly empty room. I pull aside the curtain. Floor-to-ceiling shelves hold the most impressive snow globe collection I’ve ever seen. Each one is marked UNITED SNOW GLOBE WHOLESALERS.
His hand encloses a globe. “This is the answer: To stop yearning. Our atoms sleeping, content.”
“You brought something back from your travels in the Infinity Collider,” I say. “You unleashed dark energy on our world.”
“Did I? Oh. Sorry.”
“Sorry?” I laugh. “Sorry? Jeez. I closed the wormhole, by the way. You can thank me later.”
“You can thank me later,” Dr. X muses. “That’s from Star Fighter, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I say, a little impressed. Then I remember that he’s being a complete asshole. “You used to be a scientist. You were doing amazing things! I mean, parallel worlds, time travel—that’s huge. I don’t think it gets any huger than that.”
“What does all that matter if we cannot stop the one injustice of life: everything within us is born to live, and yet, we die. And what we love can be taken from us in the blink of an eye.” He blinks, and on the movie screen, his eyes seem huge, a confused owl. “That is why I created United Snow Globe Wholesalers. To take away the uncertainty. The pain. No. I must continue my work. You can show yourself out.”
“Not without Dulcie,” I say.
“Who is this Dulcie person?”
“A friend. I think she’s part of your collection now. I just want her back. That’s all.”
“Very well.” Dr. X clasps his hands together. “If you can tell me one true thing you’ve learned, one thing worth living for, you may have your friend back.”
I don’t know what to say. I could say anything—fish, popcorn, unicycles. What has meaning to me might not mean a damn thing to Dr. X. I’m so tired my muscles are shaking and I feel like crying. And so I say the only thing that comes to mind, the truest thing I can think of. “To live is to love, to love is to live.”
On the screen, Dr. X blinks, thinking. And then, suddenly, the Dulcie snow globe is on the desk in the room. Her plastic fists are pressed against the glass, and her red, painted mouth is open in a scream.
“Set her free,” I say.
“Ah,” Dr. X says softly. “That I cannot do.”
“You have to turn her back!” I say.
“I could freeze you, too. Then you’d feel nothing.”
“I don’t want to feel nothing.”
“That’s wonderful,” he murmurs, and the screen goes to static.
In the room, I hear someone clapping. The Wizard of Reckoning’s moving toward me, applauding. He’s a good six feet tall, just my height. Hooked to his belt is a scabbard with a gleaming sword poking out. Those gloved hands reach up and remove his helmet.
“Hey, Cameron. Remember me?” The Wizard of Reckoning grins, and I’d know that grin anywhere. I’ve been staring at it in the mirror for the past sixteen years. “Big surprise, huh? Bet you didn’t know you had that zit on your chin.”
“This can’t be happening.”
“And yet it is. Nice cape, by the way. Though it is a little copycat.”
Off to the right is a long hallway dotted with doors. I stumble-run toward the safety of it.
“Won’t work!” the wizard calls after me as I run smack into the wall. “It’s painted. Sorry, my little roadrunner. No escaping this.”
He unzips his space-armor jacket. Underneath he’s wearing an orange tee: MY PARENTS WENT TO SHITHENGE AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS CRAPPY T-SHIRT.
“But we got rid of you. You can’t be here,” I say, looking for an exit.
The wizard’s smile hardens. “I’m always here, Cameron. You people, I tell ya. Always looking for signs, for meaning. This is what you keep at bay—chaos, disorder, the irrational and unexplainable, death looming on the horizon, a big dark hole sucking up everything in its path, no escape.” He takes a seat on the edge of the desk. “You always seemed to have that figured out: Why try? We’re just gonna die in the end. Sensible attitude. I liked that about you, Cameron. That’s why I’m a little surprised by this third act filled with heroics. So much effort. Really, you’re making it much harder than it needs to be.”
“Making what harder than it needs to be?” Where is the door I came in through?
“Dying, of course.”
“I’m not gonna die. Dr. X is going to cure me!” I shout.
“There is no Dr. X, sponge brain,” the wizard says. “See, this whole thing—it’s in your head. A fantasy jerry-rigged from your life’s scrap-metal heap, dude.”
“Then who’s that?” I point to Dr. X’s image on the screen.
“Why must we die when everything within us was born to live?” Dr. X says, like a loop of tape that’s gone back to the beginning. “It’s a tragedy cloaked in a comedy.”
“Some guy you saw on the Internet once.”
“That’s not true. Those United Snow Globe employees—”
The Wizard of Reckoning’s hand comes down hard, rattling the snow globes. “Do. Not. Exist. Just a figment of your spongiform mind. They’re stand-ins—the coyote on your ass.”
“No.” I look around the room frantically.
“Oh, Cameron. Don’t tell me you still don’t get it.” He knocks on my head. “Hello? Is any of this getting through?”
“Ow. Quit it.”
“Sorry. My bad.” He sighs and picks some lint off his shiny pants, and I make a v
ow that if I live through this, I will never wear pants like that. “Cameron. What do you think this whole trip has been about, man? Searching for a cure? Saving the universe? Dude. Please. It’s about this.”
He throws a crumpled piece of paper at my feet. I pick it up and smooth it out. It’s Junior’s message that I stuck on the Wishing Tree back in Hope with Dulcie.
“Read it out loud, man.”
“I wish to live.”
“There you go.” He smiles.
“But … Dr. X was supposed to give me the cure. …”
“There is no cure for this life.” The wizard takes a seat on the folding chair for a minute. He stretches his long legs out in front of him, removes the sword from its scabbard, and polishes it with the edge of his shirt. “You live it to the best of your ability.”
“This is bullshit! I was supposed to get my wish!” I can’t help it. I’m crying.
The Wizard of Reckoning keeps polishing. “Sort of.”
“Huh?”
He makes a sound in his throat, a cross between a grunt and a sigh. He’s tiring of me. “So. Right. To review,” he says, putting the weapon down and lacing his fingers together, resting them on the back of his head. My head. His head. Shit, I don’t know anymore. “Did you live these past two weeks?”
“I live every week!” I argue.
“No. You exist. The question is, did you live?”
For a second, I stop fighting and think about what he’s asking me. Did I live? I made a best friend. Lost another. Cried. Laughed. Lost my virginity. Gained a piece of magic, gave it away. Possibly changed a man’s destiny. Drank beer. Slept in cheap motels. Got pissed off. Laughed some more. Escaped from the police and bounty hunters. Watched the sun set over the ocean. Had a soda with my sister. Saw my mom and dad as they are. Understood music. Had sex again, and it was pretty mind-blowing. Not that I’m keeping score. Okay, I’m keeping score. Played the bass. Went to a concert. Wandered around New Orleans. Freed the snow globes. Saved the universe.
“Well?” the wizard asks.
Dulcie, my mind answers.
“So you’re saying none of this is real?” I ask.
He checks his reflection in the cool steel of his blade. “I’m not saying that at all. Reality is what you make of it.”
Dulcie.
“Then I make it that,” I say, pointing to Dulcie.
“That?” The wizard flicks his finger at Dulcie’s glass prison and I want to punch him. “That’s a snow globe, Cameron.”
“No,” I say, swiping at the tears. “I don’t believe that. I won’t. She’s real.”
He holds out his hand. “Join me, Cameron.”
I start to laugh. The Wizard of Reckoning tries to smirk, but I can tell he’s confused.
“Hold up,” I say. “I know this bit. You’re Star Fighter-ing me. You’re going to tell me to become one with you and the universe and then fold in on yourself.”
He nods appreciatively. “Not going for it, huh?”
I cross my arms. “No.”
He shrugs. “Okay. Plan B.” His sword comes down swift and hard as justice. It leaves a bloody cut on my arm, and I gasp in pain.
“Holy crap!” I fall down and scramble away from him. The blood leaves spots on the pristine white floor, like stars in a forming universe.
“Oooh, dude. That looks nasty. You might want Glory to take a look at that.”
I’m on my knees on the white floor, holding my hand over my bleeding arm. “Glory’s back at the hospital.”
“Yeah? Where the hell do you think you are?”
“What the hell are you talking about, freak face? I’m at Disney World!” God, my arm hurts.
The wizard advances in little dance steps, swinging his sword and catching it like a partner. “No, man. You never left St. Jude’s.”
The edges of the scene buckle. The room wavers and blurs till we’re back in the hospital. Nurses and doctors bustle about. Glory walks past, a cup of coffee in her hand.
“Glory?” I blink twice, but there she is in her pink scrubs, her angel pins clinking.
I glare at the wizard, who’s got a smug little smile. “This isn’t happening. You’re making it up.”
The hospital fades as the Wizard of Reckoning shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He swings the sword and slices at my other arm.
“Aaah!” I wince. I raise my Ultimate Peace Weapon and whack at him. It collapses in on itself.
“Dude. That’s a toy. I’m carrying the real deal.”
His blade comes down again, narrowly missing me. I’ve got to get away from this guy. He’s too much for me.
“Those prions should be ripping you apart right about now, buddy, destroying what’s left of your tenuous grasp on reality.”
My E-ticket meter has gone to empty. In its place is my hospital ID bracelet. SMITH, CAMERON JOHN.
“Whatcha dreaming about now, Cam-my-man?”
Dreaming. Dreams. Do atoms dream of more? That’s what Dr. X wanted to know. I wish he were here so I could tell him yes. Yes, they do. Mine have been dreaming for weeks now. Every one of those freaking atoms catching a wave through the universe and laughing.
“What?” The Wizard of Reckoning’s looking at me funny, his sword dangling at his side.
There is no meaning but what we assign. We create our own reality. I can live with that.
“I said, ‘Catch me if you can.’”
With that, I leap up and run for the corridor, fast as a road-runner, and open the first door I see.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
In Which Coyote and Roadrunner Meet One Last Time
It’s quiet on the other side of that door. Daylight’s streaming in, landing in bright patches on familiar green-flowered wallpaper. I’m standing in our old kitchen watching the eight-year-old me at the table eating sugary cereal and reading a comic book. Mom walks by with her coffee. She looks young. And happy. She rubs a hand across my head, tousling my hair. I rub it back into messy place.
“Love you, crankmuffin,” she says.
“I’m not a crankmuffin. Don’t mess with my hair,” I grumble. It seems like a bratty thing to say, but Mom laughs.
“You are a crankmuffin, but you’re my crankmuffin.” She sits beside me with her paper, and there we are, reading and sipping and slurping. I want to tell her she’s a good mom. That I am her crankmuffin and I like it.
The Wizard of Reckoning steps out of the bathroom that’s off the kitchen. I don’t know how he got there. “Hey, dude,” he says, smirking. “Nice moment, huh? What was your thing about your hair, though? Kinda teen girl of you, if you don’t mind my saying.”
He twirls the blade like a threat and I dash back out the door and into that long white hallway where all the doors are like vibrating strings. I try the next door. I’m in Dad’s office. Dad’s at his desk, hunched over some papers. Raina’s pacing around the office. They’re not looking at each other. Raina’s telling Dad about some guy she met at a concert. She says he asked her out on a date, and Dad’s telling her she should go. She looks a little hurt. She says, “Maybe I will.” Dad says, “I think you should.” Then it’s quiet for a minute and Dad says, “Well, I’ve got a lot of paperwork to catch up on.” Raina says, “Sure.” And that’s it. She’s gone. I don’t know if this is something that’s going to happen, something that’s happening now, or something that will never happen. It’s hard to tell.
“Cam-er-on! Where are you, you slippery little road-runner?” The wizard’s hot on my tail. I leap back into the corridor and through another door.
I’m in the studio audience of some TV show. Staci Johnson’s front and center on the soundstage, wearing a really hot dress, and I think, Whoa, I had her. Or maybe she had me. She reads from a teleprompter. “Tonight, on The Hostess … will Freedom best Jackie in the not-enough-menus challenge? Or will they both have to turn in their name tags when the reservation book goes missing … ?”
“Dude, she is pretty hot.” The wizard’s sitting a row ov
er.
“Stop chasing me!” I shout.
He shrugs. I take off again, ducking in and out of doors. I run past the Small World ride.
“Oh my God!” a lady cries. “A little boy drowned! He just jumped overboard!”
Open the next door, and I’m in somebody’s backyard. Swing set. Toys. A little girl toddles over to a yard gnome, pounds its head with her pudgy hands. “Cameron, over here,” her mom calls, her arms open wide. It’s Jenna. Jenna’s a mom.
“Meep-meep!” The Wizard of Reckoning taunts, and I scramble back into that endless corridor. He pops out from behind a door in front of me. “Hot-cha!” he says, waving his spirit fingers.
“Stop doing that—it’s annoying!” I yell as I dive through a different door and find myself in a desert, a gun in my hands. I’m wearing camouflage.
“Move it, soldier. There’s a war on.” A guy barks, and slaps my back, and then we’re marching forward.
“Keith, tell that story again—the one about the Party House,” one of the soldiers calls out.
“Oh, man! You would not believe how fine Marisol is, I’m telling you,” the other soldier turns and says. His uniform reads PVT. KEITH WASHINGTON. “It was the rockingest day—”
“Hey,” I shout. “Wait—”
His foot comes down. “—of my life—”
The sand explodes in a mile-high fireball. There’s shouting. Orders. Chaos. Explosions. Gunfire. I toss the gun and run pushing out into the safety of the hall. Except that it’s not safe. Another door. More sand. But this is a beach, not a war zone.
“Can I help you?” Behind me is a shack. The Magic Screw Guy Boat Repair. The man at the counter holds out his hands as if to say, I don’t have all day, pal. His hat reads KEITH.
“I said, can I help you?”
“You already did,” I say, and dart for the next door.
I keep running, trying doors. In one, Eubie’s onstage in New Orleans drumming for Junior Webster; in another, he’s playing Junior’s albums and guiding college kids toward good music in his shop. The Copenhagen Interpretation plays a futuristic, Tomorrowland-worthy palace in a sky where three moons shine, and you know, the acoustics are really good. I see the busy streets of New Orleans and the quiet peace of the graveyards. I see people coming and going from the Wishing Tree, pinning their hopes to it so it’s always in bloom. In another, Gonzo and Justin ride a coaster together. When it plunges, they raise their arms and scream in happiness. I walk through all kinds of landscapes. Past. Present. Future. Alternatives. At first, I try hard to figure out what’s real and what’s not. But after a while, it doesn’t matter anymore.