The Weird Core of the Universe
Nobody speaks. Leah crosses her arms, face slack. Ray rubs her mouth. I scratch the weeping burn on my chest. Gordon holds his head in his hands.
I didn’t tell them everything. I didn’t say one word about their futures. I didn’t cover every detail of Trump’s Presidential campaign—not that I could. I told them about Claude, the Doomsday Garden, my phone call with Slice Clark. I told them what I saw in the bathroom, in the woods, in the shed.
“At least we know Mom wasn’t crazy,” Gordon says. “If my sister had a kid—”
“She’s seven.”
“In the future. She’d be…2016, right?…she’d be twenty. A little young to have a kid, but not impossible. If Mom thought her grandson died, or ceased to exist…” He lapses into a gloomy silence.
“You are different,” Leah says to
