The candles from Francine had long burned down. Uncle Henry bought new ones, so the Biscuit Basket stood aglow, a warm and welcoming break from the cold for passersby. However, the new candles lacked the distinctive style of Francine’s striped ones. What’s more, as the saying goes, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. The bakeries two streets over had also adorned their windows with shining candles. The candy shop around the corner had started producing candle-shaped lollipops. Even the coffee shop took part, and went one step further by placing tiny candles on each of its tables and advertising “romantic candlelit tables for two—perfect for a coffee date!”
Uncle Henry was unfazed. They still had a decent number of customers. The baker offered winter specials on batches of cinnamon buns. “The best cure for a chilly day,” he claimed, “is a piping hot cinnamon bun straight from the oven.”
He was absolutely right. The cinnamon buns sold out each day.
On Thanksgiving Day, Uncle Henry closed the bakery to have a special meal. Amidst the store’s bright candles, he and Adam had baked potatoes, fruit salad, cranberry sauce, and one-third of a whole roasted chicken (the rest was saved for later). It was the best supper Adam had ever eaten. They counted their blessings and marveled how just over a month ago, they had almost been evicted because they’d been short on rent.
Later that night, Adam stopped by the Hole to drop off leftover baked potatoes and fruit salad. The shelter was having its own celebration. The aroma of beef stew embraced Adam when he walked in, and had he not been stuffed to the brim already, his mouth would have watered for a bite.
Victor was eating with a small group of people around a table piled with mashed potatoes, two baskets of bread, and bowls of hot stew. Extra lamps had been set up in the corners, brightening the room with a warm, sunny glow. Today, the inhabitants of the shelter no longer wore troubled expressions, but were laughing and chatting like good friends. Despite their misfortune, in that moment, they were happy. The cheerful sight held Adam in place.
When Victor saw Adam, the old man wheeled across the room to greet him. “Hello, fellow! Wonderful day, isn’t it?”
“The best.” Adam handed the leftovers to Victor. “I ate so much I might explode.”
“That’ll be me by the end of tonight. Who knew there are so many foods I’m thankful for?”
Adam watched Victor put the food on the table for the others. A few of the people clapped Victor on the back. Grinning toothlessly, Victor returned to Adam.
“Will you be staying?” he asked.
“No, it’s almost bedtime. But thank you.” Adam glanced at the group at the table and thought of Francine. “Can I ask you something, Victor?”
“Fire away.”
“I was just wondering…do these people here have families?”
“The sad truth is, no, not really. A lot of them don’t have families or friends to turn to in times of need. But that’s what this place is for. Here, we become sort of a temporary family for each other. Even if we don’t know everyone’s names.”
“What about you? You don’t have a real family either?”
Victor shook his head. “Not in the sense you mean.”
Adam suddenly realized in all these years, he had never asked Victor about his background. He had only heard the old man tell other people’s tales, but never his own, aside from the stories about his leg.
“What did you do before you came to the Hole?” Adam asked.
“Hm, interesting question.” The old man paused for a few moments. “The story of my past is long and full of twists and turns. It would take twelve months to recount it all.” He smiled and peered at Adam. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”
Adam had never been past the kitchen before. He followed Victor down a dim corridor, the sound of his footsteps and Victor’s wheels muffled against the frayed carpet. Victor paused in front of Door 6, and used his key to unlock the knob. Inside was a cramped room even smaller than Adam’s tiny bedroom. It contained only a simple bed and a plastic bin of clothing.
Despite the barren space, it was clear that Victor had tried to spruce it up to make it more homey. Along the tiny windowsill were tiny pieces of dried flowers, arranged by type and color. Pasted to the wall next to the bed were posters of galaxies and solar systems. To Adam’s surprise, textbooks sat against the opposite wall. He tilted his head to read the spines. They were heavy textbooks on mathematics and space.
Victor followed Adam’s gaze and grinned. “Yes, those are what I wanted to show you,” he said. “I need to return them soon. A professor at the university up the street let me borrow them for some light reading.”
“Light reading?” repeated Adam.
“Well, light to me. At one point in my early life, I was a mathematician.”
Now, much like a writer, an actuary, or a professional dog-food taster, a mathematician has one of the most misunderstood jobs in the world. A mathematician’s work can be described as one similar to a detective’s. Both involve complicated puzzles and mysteries, and people in both professions try to find a logical pattern behind the puzzles. Consider Nicolaus Copernicus, for example, one of the greatest mathematicians in history, who helped prove Earth rotates around the sun, and not the other way around, as millions of people had believed. Or Florence Nightingale, whose mathematical study of hospitals improved their condition and thus kept numerous patients from dying. Throughout time, mathematicians have made possible what was previously thought impossible.
Adam had not thought much about what he’d like to be when he got older. For a brief period, he had wavered between veterinarian and zookeeper. But after listening to Victor explain what a mathematician does, he was convinced his future career was to be a mathematician too. He listened raptly as Victor recounted his university days solving equations and figuring out puzzles.
“I had a very cool idea for a project involving permutations,” Victor said.
“What’s a permutation?” Adam asked.
“I bet you’re familiar with the concept without knowing the word,” Victor said kindly. “Imagine you had a spoon, a fork, and a knife. How many ways can you arrange them? First the spoon, then the fork, and last the knife. Or how about, first the knife, then the spoon, and last the fork? Now, imagine you had one thousand spoons, each a slightly different color. What then? Red spoon, fork, blue spoon, green spoon, knife. Or blue spoon, fork, red spoon, green spoon, knife, and so on. You can have a near-infinite amount of combinations, if the set is large and diverse enough. In math, we call these permutations. That is the simplified concept of what was at the heart of my project. But my department ran out of funding before I could really get going on it.”
“You had no money?”
“No money,” Victor repeated. “My project was stalled. That was the end of my career as a mathematician. In truth, that was the first of a handful of big blows in my life. A slippery slope, from which I found it difficult to recover.”
Adam knew what it was like not to have enough money for something he wanted. “That stinks,” he mumbled. “If only we could change the past.”
“Ah, but it wouldn’t be that simple! Part of why I loved that project so much is the concept of infinity. Life is full of infinite possibilities. Many permutations. And once a permutation is set, it connects to the next one, as if on a string. It’s all intertwined. The string of my life has taken me places I never imagined, and I am who I am today because of my past.”
A former mathematician who’s now stuck working in the Hole, thought Adam. He didn’t say aloud how dismal that was.
One of Victor’s neighbors peeked in the doorway. He nodded at Adam awkwardly and shifted his hands inside his oversized coat. Then he bid Victor to rejoin them at the dinner table.
“There won’t be any bread left if you dawdle, brother!”
“Coming,” chuckled Victor.
After the man left, Adam asked, “That was your brother?”
“No, we’re not related
by blood. But he’s my brother in every other way. He’s a friend. And friends are like family.” Victor smiled. “Sorry, but the party’s waiting. Don’t want all the baguettes to disappear!”
Adam bid goodbye to Victor, then headed home. As soon as the Biscuit Basket came into view, he could tell something was wrong.
Flashing blue-and-red lights of two parked police cars lit up the street. One of the bakery windows was broken. Three of Uncle Henry’s cakes on display were overturned. Inside, shattered glass and molten candle wax smeared the bakery floors.
Uncle Henry was in the middle of speaking to two police officers. He saw Adam and waved him inside with a sense of urgency.
“What happened?” Adam asked.
“Vandalism,” answered one of the officers. She held up a sharp rock the size of her palm.
Adam stared at the rock, baffled. “Do you know who did it?”
Uncle Henry told the story. He hadn’t yet pulled down the metal security screen in front of the bakery, as he’d been in the back room, preparing some dough for the next day, when he’d heard the glass shatter. He dashed out wielding a large rolling pin and found a tall figure, who immediately turned and ran out of the bakery. The cakes and the burning candles had already been knocked over, and Uncle Henry was too busy putting out the flames to chase the perpetrator into the street outside.
“You’re lucky this place didn’t burn down,” said the other officer. “Candles are dangerous to display in a shop. Huge fire hazards.”
“We snuff the candles out every night before bed,” Uncle Henry quickly reassured him.
Uncle Henry went to get a broom to sweep up the mess. Meanwhile, the police asked Adam if he saw anyone suspicious on the streets. He hadn’t—at least, not in a while. A chilly breeze passed through the hole in the window. Adam shivered, but for a slightly different reason.
“I think I know who it was,” he whispered.
He told them his theory that M had returned to the shop, though leaving out the part that M was chasing after a magic snow globe. Unfortunately, without evidence, the police couldn’t confirm the culprit was M. Besides, they told Adam, a name like M was not much to go on. But the officers jotted down Adam’s description of the man.
When Uncle Henry at last emerged with a broom and dustpan, the police instructed him and Adam to keep vigilant and to call if the perpetrator returned.
After the police left, Adam helped his uncle patch up the window temporarily with cardboard and duct tape. They swept up the broken glass pieces, scraped away the wax, and cleaned up the smashed cakes.
“The bakery will have to remain closed until the window’s fixed,” said Uncle Henry. He shook his head and muttered, “Why would anyone do this?”
Adam knew why, of course. He swallowed. “Uncle Henry, I have to tell you something.”
Adam went upstairs and returned with the snow globe. He told his uncle all about the magic behind the snow globe, about the crazy adventures he’d had, and the people he’d encountered. He told him about meeting Francine the candle seller, and about the town where the candle factory had stood. He told his uncle about Jack and their trip to New York City in 1968. He told him his suspicion that it was M who’d vandalized the bakery that night, in search of the snow globe. Uncle Henry listened quietly and did not interrupt.
Finally, once Adam finished, Uncle Henry said gently, “Your parents were natural explorers, Adam. It wouldn’t surprise me if you inherited some of that, and went traveling in your dreams.”
Adam’s mouth fell open. “These weren’t dreams! Candlewick is a real town! Or was!”
“I’ve also traveled to real places in my dreams. You say these travels happen only at night?”
“Not the first time!” said Adam, catching Uncle Henry’s knowing eyebrow raise. “That time was in the afternoon.”
Even so, he knew the story wasn’t convincing. Uncle Henry gave him a worried frown, then placed a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry about this shady M character. This mess tonight was probably done by one of the other bakers. They don’t like the competition, you know, now that we’re getting successful.”
“But—”
“It’s getting late. You should go to bed. Here, take your snow globe with you.”
Adam sucked in his cheeks. There was no use arguing. “Yes, Uncle Henry,” he mumbled as he shuffled toward the stairs.
On his way, he passed the patched-up window where, right outside the bakery, on the other side of the wall, lurked a tall man in a black suit.
Uncle Henry was not the only person who had heard Adam’s tale about the snow globe.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
BURNED
The Biscuit Basket remained closed for the next few days. There were a lot of back-and-forth negotiations with the insurance company. The initial cost of repairing the window would take a good chunk of money from Uncle Henry’s savings, but thanks to the earnings from the previous month, they wouldn’t be scraping for cash.
Adam stayed hunched in his bedroom for most of the weekend, staring at the empty snow globe. The longer the snow globe remained blank, the more miserable he felt. And like the snow globe, he had nothing: no leads on the mysterious M, no proof of the snow globe’s magic for the police or his uncle, and no idea what to do.
The unknown tends to scare people because it makes us jump to many different conclusions. If your closet door swings open on its own in the middle of the night, for example, you might think you have a ghost on your hands, when it could just as likely be a faulty latch or a draft. Or if someone suddenly disappears, never to be heard from again, you might think they have been taken by kidnappers or monsters from the lagoon, when it’s equally likely they simply decided to go on a long vacation without any of their belongings. But because our minds never truly know the truth in these cases, we can simply go about guessing all day.
For Adam, the two biggest unknowns occupying his mind were: 1) the true extent of his and his uncle’s safety, and 2) the likelihood that he’d ever be able to warn the townspeople of Candlewick of the fire before it started.
To say nothing of other past events closer to his heart he’d desperately like to change.
Then, on Sunday evening, it happened. A landscape finally emerged inside the snow globe.
It was Candlewick.
This might be his chance. Adam anxiously waited until Uncle Henry had gone to bed, and, for good measure, sat tight until his uncle’s snores in the living room reached a steady rhythm. Then Adam took the snow globe and gave it a small shake.
Snowflake confetti swirled inside the glass. Adam was already thinking about what he’d do once he got to the town. He didn’t know how much time he had, so he needed to hurry.
In a blink, Adam was back on the same hillside outside the town of Candlewick. Though the air was warm, the stars winked coldly overhead against the inky sky. He started toward the town, but by the time he reached the outskirts, he realized something was very, very wrong.
Only a few of the houses had their lights on. Most of the windows along every street were as dark as the streets themselves. Cars had vanished from driveways. None of the lampposts were lit. Worst of all, a stale layer of smoke hung in the air, along with a familiar scorched smell. Adam sniffed the air again. To his horror, he recognized what the smell was: burned candle wax. It was the same smell that had stuck to the floors of his uncle’s bakery a few days ago.
He peered desperately into the distance, where the candle factory stood isolated in the dark. Its ominous smokestacks were dormant. None of its windows were lit either. “That doesn’t mean anything,” Adam told himself. After all, the place was still standing.
Had he been close enough, Adam would have realized each window had been completely shattered.
As Adam stumbled ahead, the smell of smoke grew stronger. He arrived at the first street and slowly passed the houses, looking around for a sign of someone—anyone.
The first few homes were empty. The next house
had a dog barking indoors. Adam went up to the window for a closer look. The living room was dark. In the dim moonlight, he could make out the shapes of various pieces of furniture—a sofa, the silhouette of a bookcase. Remnants of flowers were strewn on the windowsill next to a shallow vase in which very little water remained. A lonely Boston terrier yapped tirelessly at the front door. It raised its white-and-black head and, upon seeing Adam, whimpered through the window.
Adam tried the door handle. Locked.
The dog’s owners were not there. Hanging on the wall next to the dog was a photo of a middle-aged couple. Adam had a sinking feeling he knew where they’d gone.
“Poor thing,” Adam whispered. The dog reminded him of his own beloved Speedy. The next moment, Adam had gently lifted the window. The terrier leaped outside and bounded into his arms, where he curled into a whimpering ball. The dog gave Adam courage as he kept walking.
Several houses later, Adam came across the first people. A mother and her daughter were packing suitcases into a car in their garage. Adam timidly approached them.
“Excuse me,” he said. “Did something happen here?”
The mother turned to him in surprise. Her eyes were puffy and had dark circles underneath. “Why, yes, child. Didn’t you hear about the disaster?”
The daughter, a wiry teenager, spoke up. “The factory burned down two weeks ago. A lot of people in town died.”
Adam stared at them. No, it was not possible. There was still time, there had to be—
“There’s nothing left for us here,” said the mother. She cast a weary glance at their suitcases. “Most of us survivors are leaving town. Without the candle factory, there is no source of income. My husband would—” She gasped with a shudder and hid her face in her sleeve.
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