The book is dripping wet, so I hold it over the tank as I turn to page 43. Oliver is healthy and intact—if a little bit damp. I remember my tears splashing on him as well; whatever seal is between us must be porous to liquid. “What were you trying do? Kill yourself?” I yell.
“Exactly,” Oliver says, taking the dagger from between his teeth so that he can talk to me. “I was proving a hypothesis.”
“Like whether you could burn this office down?”
“What office? Where are you, anyway?” Oliver asks. “And why am I sopping wet, down to my undergarments?”
“Long story…” I suddenly realize what he’s said to me. “You… you want to die?”
“No—I want to get out of here. But everything that changes in this story winds up fixing itself in the end. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Dead men walk again; broken barns fix themselves. What good would it be for me towrite myself out of this book if I’m going to wind up right back inside it sooner or later?”
I remember the words on the page shimmering and changing before my eyes. “Hang on,” I say, and I flip to the page that has Pyro and Oliver fighting on it.
The text has gone back to the way it used to be.
I hurriedly turn again to page 43, where Oliver and I can speak freely. “You’re right,” I tell him.
“Obviously. I didn’t burn to death.” He sniffs at his sleeves. “Not even smoky. Delilah, I’m afraid I’m stuck here, destined to be part of this story forever. Nothing from this book will ever break through to the outside world.”
I think about how water has permeated that barrier—but in both cases, it was water frommyworld entering his, a one-way valve. The only time we tried to extract something from the book—that spider—it didn’t work.
Except, this time, somethingdidescape.
“Oliver,” I say, “you’re wrong.”
He lifts his face toward mine. “How so?”
“When you ran into Pyro’s flames, were you holding the book you found at Rapscullio’s?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that must be the difference. When it caught fire,” I say, “so did the book I was reading. And it wasn’t just words likeinfernoandblazewriting themselves all over the place—it was actuallyflaming.”
Oliver’s eyes widen. “You mean—”
“Yes.” I laugh. “You did it!”
“Whatdid you do?” My mother has come into Dr. Ducharme’s office. They are both staring at me as I stand in front of the fish tank talking to an open book.
“I, um, was just… proving a hypothesis,” I say, borrowing Oliver’s phrase. “In Biology we’re studying the ability of, uh, sea creatures to recognize the written word.” Closing the book, I wrap it in my coat and hug it to my chest. It leaves a damp spot on the front of my shirt.
If the psychiatrist didn’t think I was crazy already, seeing me reading to his angelfish will have sealed the deal. Knowing there’s no way to get out of this one, I smile at Dr. Ducharme. “So,” I say brightly. “Same time next week?”
