Nostalgia falls over me, a warm comfort. Memory has a pulse. A steady push-pull heartbeat divulging tender glimpses into the past. It hides in sounds and scents and places. Sometimes sharp, sometimes less clear. A reminder of the connections we’ve made, the paths we’ve walked.
Forward momentum is intimidating, forever lurching onward.
The door opens, startling me from my reverie. Sumner walks in carrying a cardboard box, his worn maroon sweater rumpled and baggy. His hair is slightly damp, like he showered not too long ago, and there’s a rip in the knee of his jeans. Lionel enters behind him, crew neck sleeves rolled up, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.
“Danforth’s letting you use his room?” I ask.
“He likes me,” Sumner says as he sets the box down. “What kind of trouble would he expect me to get into?”
“Well,” I begin with heavy sarcasm. “I suppose there’s the cosmology-of-time-travel variety.”
Sumner flicks his gaze over to me. “About that.” He pulls Mr.Danforth’s wheely chair out from behind his desk and guides it toward us. With a quick spin he’s straddling the seat, torso pressedinto the backrest as he props his elbows on the desk in front of him. “I told him we entered an engineering contest and needed a place to work on our project, so that’s what we’re doing.”
“You,” I say, incredulous, “told him you were working on a voluntary group project withme?”
His brows lift. “Yes?”
“Sumner, we were at each other’s throats when we were in his class. You may as well have told him we were working on manipulating the threads of space-time because, clearly,thatis more believable.”
Lionel changes the subject. “What’s in the box?”
“Some materials to get us started.” He jumps up and begins pulling out items. “Oscillators, copper wire, fiberglass, some different-size gears, but we’re going to need more.”
Then it hits me. “You read the article.”
“Well, Ididhave to sound out each word, but yes,” he says flatly, “I read it.”
William looks between us. “What does it entail?”
“Very little, it turns out,” Sumner grumbles.
“That’s not true,” I argue. “And anyway, my dad’s journal has additional theories.”
“And isn’t that a fun word,theory.” Sumner folds his arms across his chest. “So abstract and unproven.”
My eyes narrow. “I have a few other fun words for you—”
“You know,” Lionel interjects, moving between us, “as much as I’d love an etymology lesson, we should get started.”
“Our biggest issue is the incomplete equations,” Sumner says, popping his knuckles like we’re about to do advanced surgery. “I want to focus on the fundamentals in order to crack them.”
“We should think larger,” I press. “Start building first.”
“The engineering is part of the framework, Carmichael.”
“But we already have rough sketches to work with.” I flip my dad’s journal open on the desk to prove this point.
He spins the journal toward him, sparing it the briefest glance. “There’s hardly any math to quantify this.”
I snatch it back. “There’s some.”
“Right, I forgot the Parthenon was built on dreams and deep-seated desire.”
Ignoring this, I shut the journal. My urge to win this fight is too strong. “Just admit you don’t want to follow my lead.”
“Is the lead in the room with us?”
A headache builds behind my eyes. Sumner’s grip tightens on the box, tense. Neither of us wants to back down.
