Into the Parallel: Parallelogram, Book 1

1 They said it couldn’t be done. Well, that’s not exactly true. They said it couldn’t be done by a 17-year-old girl sitting alone in her bedroom on a Saturday morning. Well, that’s not exactly true, either, since it’s not like there’s some physicist out there who specifically made that prediction—“A seventeen-year-old girl in her pajamas? Never!”—but the point is, no one is going to believe me even if I can prove what happened, which I’m not really sure I can. But I know I did it. I was there. I didn’t imagine it or dream it or go into some sort of altered state that confused me. I felt the wind. I smelled the dog’s breath. I saw our mother. I drank some tea. It all happened. So if she’s real—and I know she is—I just have to prove it. Go there again and this time bring something back. Like a strand of her hair or a piece of her fingernail. Something with her DNA on it. To prove that she is me.