“And you were supposed to?—”
Max stares at the ceiling as if it’s too painful to look at me. “I was supposed to return with you to my dimension, where you would’ve been humanely…” He shakes his head so hard, it must hurt. “No, there’s no humanity in that, even if they claim it’s like going to sleep, that it’s painless.”
I consider that, consider what it is my father did and didn’t do. What he sacrificed to keep me alive.
“We have other problems, don’t we?” Henry says, his voice unbearably gentle. It’s a lifeline, a peace offering, because the man holding himself rigid in the hardback chair across from us needs both.
“You do. It would be one thing for King’s End to implode. A lot of cleanup for the Enclave, but nothing that hasn’t happened before. But with Pansy as the sacrifice? That changes things.”
“Because she’ll pull power from your dimension as well.”
“She will. And that will start a chain reaction that no one can stop. Apocalypse, Armageddon. It won’t be like that. After one burst of agony, your world will simply cease to exist.”
Henry slumps back on the couch and pushes his hands through his hair, his gaze now on the ceiling. “Yes, I see what you mean. Things really are sticky.”
Chapter 68
Ophelia
King’s End, Minnesota
Saturday, July 15
Jack charges through the front door of Pansy’s house. The rage that rolls off him is so strong, Ophelia must keep her distance or be consumed by it. The emotion is too sharp, too blisteringly hot. Although she’s ephemeral, the sensation sizzles against her skin.
The screen door clatters behind him, loud enough that Mortimer and Gwyneth come rushing from the kitchen.
“What is it?” Mort says. “Did you find?—?”
With all his strength, Jack flings the field packs so they strike Mort right in the gut.
“What the hell—?” The force of the blow cuts off the rest of Mort’s words.
“They’re gone!” Jack shakes the umbrellas at both Mort and Gwyneth. “I found all this at the housing development. They fell into that fissure you were so damned cavalier about.”
Mort raises his hands like he’s trying to gentle a wild animal. “Slow down and tell us what happened.”
Jack doesn’t bother with Mort. He turns his attention toward Gwyneth. “Tell me you drew blood samples. Please, tell me you did.”
Gwyneth’s eyes are wide with shock. Ophelia’s never seen Gwyneth this silent, this scared. After a moment, she manages a numb nod.
“Then we can get them back. There’s a way?—”
“It’s bullshit,” Mort says. “Stories, nothing substantial.”
Jack spins, and Ophelia cringes, catching the full force of his glare. “And you know this how?”
“I think I have the clearance to know these things, buddy. Maybe stick to your lane.”
“You know what lane I’ve been in for the last year, buddy? I’ve been analyzing every last shred of data Henry Darnelle sends to the Enclave. Trust me, my clearance is higher than yours.” He dismisses Mort with a wave of his hand.
“We can bring them back.” Jack turns the full force of his persuasion on Gwyneth. “I know how.”
“In theory,” Mort observes. “In reality, you don’t know shit. No one does. It’s never worked.”
“You’re wrong. It has worked. The Enclave doesn’t advertise it. Three months ago, someone did return. My uncle George told me, and he wouldn’t lie about something like that.”
This is news to Ophelia. It’s so hard to keep track of time in this loop. But she counts on her fingers. No, three months ago, she was already comatose, cut off from all the gossip, which, all things considered, is the most reliable source of news in the Enclave.
