If You're Reading This, It's Too Late

  Tommy! Tommy!”

  The cries of Tommy’s older brother ring in our ears — blocking out the song of the Sound Prism.

  We are at the lake again. But on the other side.

  Here we spy a little boy, maybe two or three years old. Tommy — we assume it’s Tommy — is about twenty yards from the tent, just out of view of the older boys. He appears totally carefree, laughing and playing among the wet rocks. He runs this way and that, skirting the edge of the lake, oblivious to the possibility of falling onto something sharp or drowning in the icy water.

  Thankfully, he turns away and starts running in another direction altogether. What’s drawing his attention — something in the air maybe? A dragonfly? At any rate, he heads away from the lake and — oh no! — straight into the woods.

  He disappears into a tunnel of brush so small it looks as though it was made for him. Most people wouldn’t be able to follow him into the tunnel —

  But we have no trouble. We don’t even have to duck.

  Soon the brush opens up and young Tommy finds himself in a forest glade. A beam of sunlight peeks through the clouds and lights up the trees. Delighted, he spreads his arms and spins around and around until he falls dizzy in a heap on the ground.

  In the background, the older boys’ voices are heard again, but fainter than before. “Tom-my! Tom-my!” they cry. “Where are you? Come back!”

  Tommy giggles and staggers to his feet. They’re playing his favorite game — hide-and-seek! But where to hide? He looks around. There are almost too many options. Big rocks. Giant ferns. Fallen logs.

  A tall fir tree has been hollowed out by fire, leaving a small charred cave at the base of the tree — perfect.

  He runs stumblingly toward the tree. In his haste, he doesn’t notice us darting past him.

  Nor does he notice the sound his footsteps are making. It is the sound of crunching bones. The whole glade is littered with them.

  By the time Tommy reaches the tree, we are inside, looking up at him. We let out a low, guttural grrrrrrrowl.

  “Kitty . . . ?” he asks. “Doggy . . . ? Doggy go ruff-ruff!”

  His pudgy hand reaches into the hole, and —

  Cass woke up gnawing on her own hand, her pillow covered with slobber.

  She shuddered in horror. What had happened to the little boy?

  Cass jumped out of bed, trying to shake off her dream. When had she started believing her dreams were real, anyway? Probably, there was no boy and never had been. According to Max-Ernest, there might not even be a homunculus.

  And even if there were a homunculus, according to that birth certificate, she was the wrong girl to be dreaming about him.

  In any case, she had a job to do.

  They’d decided the next step was to come up with a list of likely locations for the homunculus. After all, he hadn’t come when she’d played the song of the Sound Prism the first time. Maybe they needed to be closer to the homunculus for him to hear.

  Suddenly, Cass stiffened: on her Wall of Horrors, directly in front of her, was her dream. Well, the lake in her dream. In black-and-white. And blurry. But unmistakable nonetheless. There were the same jagged mountains in the background. And the same graveyard on the side of the lake.

  BEAR OR BIGFOOT?

  Three-Year-Old Boy Survives Mountain Encounter

  She’d cut the article out of the newspaper a month or so ago, realizing that she was unsure how to respond to a bear attack (was it true you were supposed to play dead?), and she’d been disappointed that the article provided no instructions.

  With an uncomfortable prickling sensation in the back of her neck, she reread the article now:

  Whisper Lake— On Monday, forest service officials reported a mountain miracle.

  For the last few weeks, a very hungry bear has been haunting Whisper Lake, a popular campsite for backpackers. According to a local ranger, the bear steals food and garbage from all the campers who stay at the lake — no matter how well it’s hidden.

  “Eats everyone’s dinner — the sneak! Getting ready to hibernate for winter, I guess. A long winter,” said the ranger.

  Locals had taken to calling him Bigfoot — because of his big appetite. And because, until this past weekend, nobody had seen the elusive ursine in person — only his tracks.

  But then three-year-old Thomas Xxxxxx went missing at Whisper Lake.

  When his older brother told their parents that Thomas was lost, the family immediately sought help. For three hours, rangers searched, to no avail. They all feared the worst.

  “Then Tommy came stumbling back into the campsite — laughing like nothing was wrong,” said his brother.

  Tommy said he’d been playing in the woods with a little monster. Rangers are certain the monster was in fact the bear because of the name Tommy had for him, “Garbage Face.” . . .

  Garbage Face!?

  It couldn’t be a coincidence. It was too close to Cabbage Face.

  The question in Cass’s mind was: which came first?

  Did she dream about Whisper Lake only because she’d read the article? In which case the bear was just a bear.

  Or were her dreams telling her something, showing her something, something . . . she didn’t know what the word was . . . else?

  A dream was the fulfillment of a wish, Max-Ernest had said.

  Her dream was so horrifying that it was hard to imagine that it fulfilled anything other than her worst fears. On the other hand, she had wished to locate the homunculus — could her dream have located him for her?

  There was only one way to find out.

  You have five minutes to complete the following quiz. No flipping back through what you’ve read. And No. 2 pencils only, please.

  Circle one:

  A homunculus is:

  a. my little brother

  b. a large glob pulled out of your nose

  c. a wrestling hold

  A sea anemone eats with its:

  a. mouth

  b. tentacles

  c. I can’t say in polite company

  The Sound Prism is:

  a. a special mental trick for locking out the sound of your parents yelling at you

  b. an album by the 70s rock band Pink Floyd

  c. an idea that makes no sense

  Sigmund Freud said:

  a. A dream is the fulfillment of a wish.

  b. Beans, beans, the magical fruit, the more you eat, the more you toot.

  c. I know you are, but what am I?

  Feedback is:

  a. throw up

  b. a really horrible sound

  c. when I tell Pseudonymous Bosch his book stinks

  What is the Secret?

  a. the secret of immortality

  b. never take your eyes off your opponent

  c. a lot of butter

  What happens next in this book?

  a. How should I know? You’re the writer!

  b. If I told you, I’d have to kill you.

  c. nothing good

  OK. Time’s up. Pencils down.

  One of the first rules of parenting — or so I hear — is that you should always be consistent with your child. If you tell your daughter she’s grounded for a month, well, then ground her for a month. Otherwise, she’ll lose respect for you and she’ll run wild like a heathen.

  Cass’s mother, I’m sure, was fully aware of this rule. She probably had every intention of keeping her word in regard to Cass’s freedom or lack thereof. But you know what they say about good intentions.

  By the time Cass asked her mother if she could go camping with her grandfathers, her mother was itching for Cass to get out of the house just as much as Cass was. That’s the only explanation I can think of for why Cass’s mother didn’t instantly refuse Cass’s request.

  Cass: “It’ll still be like I’m grounded — I mean, they’re practically my guardians.”

  Mom: “You won’t have any fun, right?”

  Cass: “Promise!
No fun at all!”

  Mom: “And you won’t have any desserts while you’re gone?”

  Cass: “None!”

  Mom: “You won’t even put any chocolate chips in your trail mix?”

  Cass: “None!”

  Mom: “Not even any peanut butter chips?”

  Cass: “None! I’ll put raisins in. And you know how much I hate them. It’ll be the worst punishment ever!”

  Mom: “And you’ll do everything Larry and Wayne tell you?”

  Cass: “Everything!”

  Mom: “Except when it’s crazy or dangerous or they’re just getting sidetracked because there’s something they want for their store?”

  Cass: “Except then!”

  Mom: “Even though that’s pretty much all the time?”

  Cass: “Even though.”

  Mom: “And you won’t run off without telling anyone — on this trip or ever again?”

  Cass: “I won’t. I promise.”

  Mom: “OK, then. You can go. But don’t tell anyone I let you!”

  Cass: “Thanks, Mom. You’re the best. By the way, you have to watch Sebastian while we’re gone. That’s the only way I could get Larry and Wayne to go — Bye!”

  Mom: “Cass, come back here right now! I am not changing some blind dog’s diaper — and I thought you said they asked you to go!”

  Cass: “Sorry, can’t hear you!”

  Even on a good day, the firehouse was so crammed it was hard to move around. Now that it was a staging ground for a backpacking trip, it looked like a refugee camp after a hurricane.

  Max-Ernest lugged in all his camping equipment — including two brand-new backpacks, one red, one blue — only to find himself stuck right inside the door; there was just too much stuff for him to move farther.

  Yo-Yoji was already there, standing by Cass’s side. He looked at Max-Ernest like Max-Ernest was insane. “Dude, why do you have two backpacks —?”

  Wait. Halt. Freeze.

  Let me guess: you’re wondering what Yo-Yoji was doing at the firehouse. Was he actually invited to go backpacking with them, you want to know.

  I don’t blame you — I’d be surprised, too.

  Here’s what happened:

  The three kids had remet in detention the day after Cass decided they had to go to Whisper Lake.

  While Max-Ernest furiously redid his math homework (even though it was correct the first time), Cass peppered Yo-Yoji with questions about backpacking:

  “What kind of mosquito repellent do you use?”

  “What kind of water purifier do you like the best?”

  “Have you ever been caught in a storm?”

  Yo-Yoji was happy to answer. However, if Cass and Max-Ernest were going backpacking, he said, he was going with them. Indeed, he downright insisted.

  “I know you guys are going on some kind of cool secret adventure, and I don’t care if I’m invited or not — this time you’re not leaving me like at the tide pools, yo!”

  Of course, Cass denied that they were going on a secret adventure, but instead of trying to dissuade him, she turned to Max-Ernest:

  “What do you think — should we let him? I mean, he’s gone backpacking before and we haven’t. What if we get separated from my grandfathers? I have my compass and maps and everything, but it’s different to have somebody with experience.”

  I don’t know how Max-Ernest would have reacted if Cass had said straight out that she wanted Yo-Yoji to come on their trip, but by appealing to his logic, she’d put him in a corner.

  All Max-Ernest could say was: “That makes sense.”

  “Cool,” said Yo-Yoji. “Everybody else in this school sucks. They’re all boring Amber clones. You guys are the only interesting ones.”

  Cass’s ears had reddened — or at least pinked — hearing this praise.

  Max-Ernest had remained absolutely expressionless, as if he’d decided he was done with emotion altogether.

  Now, back to the fire station:

  As they assembled for the backpacking trip, Cass was on pins and needles, anxious to see how well — or not — the two boys would get along. I think that’s why she intervened so quickly when Yo-Yoji asked about Max-Ernest’s two backpacks.

  “He has to do everything in twos ’cause of his parents — it’s kind of complicated,” she said, stepping between them. “But seriously, Max-Ernest, why don’t you just leave one? Your parents won’t even know.”

  “Yeah, but I’ll know. And if I pick one and not the other, it’s like —” Max-Ernest shuddered. “Anyway, they both have wheels.”

  “Those aren’t even the right kind for backpacking,” said Yo-Yoji. “This is what you’re supposed to have —” He picked up his backpack and handed it to Max-Ernest, who handed it right back without allowing himself to show any interest.

  “See how light it is,” Yo-Yoji continued. “My parents are really strict about packing. I’m not allowed to carry anything heavy. Like toothpaste. Or changes of underwear.”

  “That’s gross,” said Cass.

  Yo-Yoji laughed. “I was just kidding — partly. We’re allowed underwear. But my parents are pretty serious. Everything we eat has to be freeze-dried.”

  “Well, don’t tell your parents, but we’re going to be eating a little better than that,” said Grandpa Larry, who was tying a big pot to an old army backpack. “Even if it means sweating on the way up.”

  There are any number of Whisper Lakes in the world. Perhaps not as many as there are Emerald Lakes or Mirror Lakes, but plenty nevertheless. Look on any given map and you have a good chance of finding one.

  That is why I feel no compunction about naming the lake to which our young heroes now headed. Furthermore, I do not hesitate to tell you that their destination was high, high up in the mountains; after all, a multitude of lakes exist at high elevations.

  What I will not tell you is where the trailhead was. Only that it was in the foothills of a famously rugged mountain range, separated from a small dirt parking lot by a deep gorge.

  As soon as Grandpa Wayne’s truck pulled into the parking lot, Cass, Max-Ernest, and Yo-Yoji hopped out.*

  “You better go now, if you have to,” said Cass to Max-Ernest. She pointed to the decrepit outhouses by the side of the lot. “’Cause once we’re in the mountains, you have to dig a hole and bury it. And you have to make sure you’re far away from any lakes or rivers, otherwise you contaminate the water. Right?” she asked Yo-Yoji, eager to show she knew what she was doing — even if she’d never been backpacking before.

  He nodded. “Yeah, pretty much.”

  Alarmed, Max-Ernest eyed the outhouses. Their doors were half open, flies buzzing in and out.

  “We’re just going for two nights, right?” he asked, clearly wondering whether he could hold it in the whole time.

  After they’d all braved the port-o-potties — even Max-Ernest, who’d sounded from the outside oddly like he was reciting multiplication tables while he went to the bathroom — they hoisted their backpacks on their backs.

  “Here goes nothing!” said Grandpa Wayne.

  “Just breathe in that fresh mountain air,” said Grandpa Larry. “It’s like fuel — it’ll take us all the way to the top!”

  A wooden footbridge spanned the gorge, leading to the trail. Next to the bridge, a message board stood under a wooden overhang. Flyers warned against bears as well as various other high-country hazards. “No campfires?!” said Larry. “How’re we going to make s’mores?”

  “We better not,” said Cass. “You want to start a forest fire? Plus, campfires pollute. Do you know that in Yosemite it gets smoggy from all the campfires?”

  “We’ve been making fires in Yosemite since before you were born, young lady,” said Grandpa Larry.

  “I hope you’re not going to be one of those kind of campers,” said Grandpa Wayne. “Or I’m turning around right now.”

  Yo-Yoji laughed. Cass marched forward with her nose in the air.

  But as she crossed the br
idge, she slowed, looking down at the tops of ferns and a small waterfall that might have been a mighty force in the springtime but right now didn’t roar so much as purr, lulling the innocent passerby.

  Did the water flow all the way from Whisper Lake? Cass wondered. What would they find at the end of this hike? Friend or enemy? Man or monster? Or would they only find a mockery of her dreams?

  Cass reached behind her and felt the bottom corner of her backpack: yes, the Sound Prism was still there. Why did she feel as though it might disappear at any second?

  After a short climb out of the gorge, the trail rose gently for the first half mile or so, wending its way through a forest of pale-trunked trees that flickered in and out of the shadows like an old black-and-white filmstrip; the silver-dollar-sized leaves rustling as if other, much larger beings were walking among the trees.

  “Quaking aspen,” said Grandpa Larry.

  “Also known as trembling aspen,” said Grandpa Wayne.

  Soon, the hikers emerged from the aspens to find themselves walking across a golden meadow surrounded by pine trees. Although it was autumn, a few wildflowers remained, and dandelion spores floated lazily in the sunshine.

  “See, the mountains aren’t only about survival,” said Grandpa Larry to Cass.

  Cass rolled her eyes, but there was no denying the beauty in front of them.

  By the time they’d crossed the meadow, their shoes were muddy and the mood of the hike had changed; they stared up at a steep, wide, and totally bare mountainside. The trail zigzagged across it.

  Switchbacks.

  A word sure to strike terror in the heart of any hiker.

  As they traversed back and forth, inching up the mountain, Grandpa Larry tried to entertain them with stories about previous travels. Stories with which Grandpa Wayne invariably had some minor quibble.

  Like: “Oh, come on, Larry, you know you were never in the Peace Corps!”

  Or: “But you couldn’t have hiked the entire Andes range — it stretches all the way to the bottom of South America!”

  Or: “Funny, the way I remember it, I was the one who fixed the Land Rover and diverted the lions!”

  But eventually, even Cass’s grandfathers fell silent.

  Max-Ernest, who was pulling one of his backpacks behind him even as he carried the other on his back, looked like he was having the hardest time. “So, if you’re such a backpacking expert, how much longer do you think it is to the top?” he asked Yo-Yoji between big sucks of air.