OLIVER
I’M NOT SO SURE I AGREE WITH DELILAH.
In the first place, even if she manages to rewrite the story, that doesn’t mean the fairy tale won’t try to correct itself the way it’s done a hundred times before.
Second, I feel a little uncomfortable watching Delilah sit at this computer box looking for the story in its contents. It’s like sifting through someone’s mind. Like stealing.
“I think this is a bad idea,” I say out loud.
Delilah sighs. “Then tell me, Oliver—what are we supposed to do? We’ve tried everything else.”
“I thought you told us that the author herself said you can’t change a story once it’s been told—”
“Which is exactly why this makes sense,” Delilah says. “We’ll be the only ones with this edited version.”
I can feel this Edgar character staring at me intently. Every now and then he jabs a finger up against my face, bending my world, still finding it hard to believe what’s right before his eyes.“Did you see that?”he says.“He moved, right?”
Delilah swivels in her chair and, just like that, is out of my line of vision. “I can’t see you,” I holler, and she turns, exasperated.
“Edgar, can you prop up the book?” she asks.
I cling to the rock wall as Edgar tips me sideways, jabbing the points of a sagging letterkinto my back before righting me again.
“Could we make this snappy?” he asks. “I kind of want to get back to my game.”
I know Delilah has a computer too—she’s mentioned this word to me before, and I’ve heard the faint clicking of her hands doing something computer-related, but I’ve never actuallyseenthe instrument. There’s a huge window with pictures floating on it, and it’s attached by some sort of umbilical cord to what looks like an open book, with all the letters arranged in neat rows in a foreign language I cannot read.
Delilah’s hands move over this odd book, and letters appear on the window, as if by magic. “That’s amazing!” I cry out. “I must tell Orville about this!”
Delilah doesn’t seem to hear me. “The file won’t open. There’s a password. It’s five letters.”
“E-D-G-A-R,” I suggest.
Delilah types the word and hits another key. There is a high-pitched beep, but nothing changes on the big window in front of her.
“Can you think of anything else?” she asks Edgar. “Did you have a pet?”
“I’m allergic to everything but naked mole rats….”
“How about your dad’s name?” Delilah suggests.
Edgar looks down at the ground. “Isaac.”
I watch Delilah’s hands: I-S-A-A-C. Again, that high-pitched beep. Delilah bangs her fist on the computer table. “I can’t believe we’re this close,” she murmurs. “Is there any other password you can think of, Edgar?”
He throws out suggestions: the street address of the house where his mother was born, the name of his mother’s childhood pet, the title of her first published novel. But nothing works. With each failed attempt, I feel heavier and heavier, as if I am physically becoming part of the material of this book.
After a fruitless half hour, Delilah gets out of the chair and kneels down so that I can see her more clearly. “I’m sorry, Oliver,” she whispers, her voice thick with disappointment. “I tried.” She reaches her hand toward me, a five-fingered eclipse, and I raise my hand to hers.But it’s not like it was when she was inside the pages with me. Between our skin, once again, is the thinnest layer of paper.
Orville once told me that people never really touch. That’s because we’re all just a bunch of very tiny atoms surrounded by electromagnetic force. Even when we hold hands we’re not holding hands. The only things coming into contact are the electrons caught between us.
It didn’t make any sense to me at the time; it was more of Orville’s scientific mumbo jumbo. But now… well, now I completely understand.
“So that’s it?” Edgar interrupts my thoughts. “We just quit?”
“It was probably a stupid idea anyway,” Delilah murmurs.
“But what about him?” Edgar jerks a thumb in my direction. “Everyone deserves a happy ending.” He shakes his head. “I sound just like my mother. She used to say that to me every night before she tucked me in.”
