“So, if I do this, I’m actually coming back to a different world,” Kyle said.
“They would say, a different ‘timestream,’” Myrna answered. “It’s the same world, just with an alternate history.”
“Who’s ‘they’?” Kyle asked.
“If you present this to your father properly in 1998,” she said, ignoring his question, “come 2014, he’ll be as eager to make things right with you, as you are eager to change the fate of those kids.”
“If I say ‘okay’, what happens next?” Kyle asked. “Where’s the time machine?”
“I’m not entirely sure how they’re going to get the silk blot to you,” she said. “But you’ll know it when you see it. That’s how you time weave.”
“Silk blot?” Kyle asked. The more details she gave him, the crazier it all sounded, but it also became harder to imagine that she was making it all up.
“I believe you just, kind of, go inside of it,” she said. “You’ll figure it out.”
“Wait, you’ve never done this before,” he said, smiling as he realized it.
“I tried,” she said. “I couldn’t.”
“You couldn’t? What does that mean? What makes you think I can?” he asked.
“You’ll know pretty quickly,” Myrna answered. “For those without the right genetic predisposition, it’s nearly impossible.”
“Genetic predisposition?”
“It’s like tongue rolling, or ear wiggling,” Myrna said. “Some people can travel back—or forward—without feeling the same physical effects most of us do. You’ll know right away if you’re not one of them.”
“And what if I’m not one of the lucky ones?” Kyle asked.
“You have a lot of questions,” she said. “I understand. Unfortunately, I don’t have any more answers.”
“It sounds risky,” he said.
“Are you so in love with the way things have worked out that you’re not willing to try to change them, even if there’s some risk?” she asked.
Kyle sat speechless, considering everything. If she was crazy, it didn’t matter what he thought. But, what if this was real?
“You’re a child-killer, and I’m giving you the chance not to be. Take this,” she said, handing him an envelope which he quickly stuck into his pants, before the guards could see. “There’s three-hundred dollars in there. All of the bills are from earlier than 1998. Get yourself a hotel room when you go back.”
This was so much to take in. “What if my father doesn’t believe me?”
“Do you believe me?” Myrna asked.
“I’m not sure,” Kyle answered. “Maybe.”
“Then, it’s possible . . . A lot of people’s lives depend on you succeeding, including your own,” she said. “Unless you consider being locked up in here a life . . .
“Oh! Timeline,” she continued. “You’ve got forty-eight hours. After that, the silk blot will expire and it won’t work to get you back. Also, when you want to come back, you have to enter the silk blot in the same exact place you exited . . . And, do not bring anyone else back with you. That’s the last thing we need.”
“What if it takes me longer than forty-eight hours?”
Myrna smiled impatiently. “You have one job—one conversation you need to have. You have to understand that the timestream is like a life form of its own—it’s looking to survive. It’s resistant to change, and it’s not welcoming to uninvited guests. The longer you stay in that time, where you don’t belong, the more you’ll find things trying to push you out. You don’t want to be there any longer than you have to.”
Myrna stood up, and put her hand on Kyle’s shoulder. “Keep your eye out. You’ll know the silk blot when you see it. We only get one chance at this.”
CHAPTER 6
February 3, 2016
* * *
Three days later
Three days had passed since Myrna’s visit and . . . nothing.
Kyle felt nervous that perhaps he’d failed to notice the mysterious silk blot she’d told him was coming. He now felt invested enough in the idea of going back that he was hoping Myrna was not just a crazy lady. At the same time, he didn’t really expect anything to happen. But since her visit, he felt more alive than he had in years. He was grasping onto the hope Myrna had brought him, even if it sounded completely insane.
“You remind me of this dog I once had, Cuatro,” Ochoa said. “Waiting. Shifting. All nervous and shit. What the fuck is up with you?”
“What kind of name is that for a dog?” Kyle asked. “Four?”
“Before we trained him up right, he sent four people to the emergency room,” Ochoa said. “Seriously, what’s up, bro?”
“Nothing. Really,” Kyle said.
“I don’t believe you,” Ochoa said. “Normally, you’re all chill and shit. Right now, it’s like you know something, and you ain’t telling. You’re on the edge man—and it’s putting me on the fuckin’ edge.”
Radbourn tapped his keys on the metal door as he opened it. “Bunk check,” he said, pushing open the door of their cell. He walked in and started casually looking around. He moved closer to Ochoa’s bed to look underneath, craning his neck to see.
Ochoa lifted up his heavy, metal bunk with one hand. “Save your back, Rad. I ain’t got shit under there.”
Radbourn stood up. “Thank you, Trevor,” he said, eyeing the empty floor underneath. Now, Ochoa went over to Kyle’s side and did the same. The beds had to be almost 200 pounds, and Ochoa lifted them almost effortlessly.
“Pizza night tonight, boys. We put an extra guard in the mess hall ‘cause too many of you little fuckers can’t keep your hands off other guys’ food.” He smiled as he nodded in the general direction of their cell, signifying that his quick once over was good enough. “You faggots make sure you keep your hands to yourselves.” Rad walked out of their cell and slammed the gate shut. “Gotta love pizza night. See ya when I see ya, boys.”
Kyle laid down again, hoping he might be able to get a little more rest.
“Is somebody fucking with you and makin’ you all nervous?” Ochoa asked. “’Cause all you have to do is tell me.”
“No one fucks with me,” Kyle answered.
“Yeah, I know,” Ochoa answered with a laugh. “I wonder why that is.” Kyle’s experience at Stevenson Youth would’ve been very different if he hadn’t been bunked with the scariest looking guy in the whole facility.
Kyle listened as Ochoa hissed through a round of pushups on the floor between their beds. “Ewww . . . ” he said, getting to his feet after twenty-five or thirty reps.
Kyle looked down and nearly did a double take. As if from thin air, he noticed a fairly large puddle next to Ochoa. It definitely hadn’t been there before. Kyle looked up at the ceiling, but there was no leak above them, nor was there a water source flowing nearby. This might be it, he thought, as his heart began to thump in his chest.
Kyle hopped off of his bed and knelt down beside to the puddle.
Ochoa hissed through his teeth. “The fuckin’ toilet’s leakin’ again. Those assholes won’t fix it until there’s kaka coming up.”
Kyle reached down and dipped his finger into the puddle.
Ochoa scrunched up his face. “What the hell?”
Kyle pulled his finger from the liquid and looked at it. He knew immediately that this was it. The black, viscous material was thicker than water, more like a jelly. “This is what I’ve been waiting on,” he said, without looking at Ochoa.
“You’ve lost it, white boy,” Ochoa said with a quick laugh.
Kyle carefully lifted the oval shape from under its edge like he was peeling off a label. He held the silk blot in front of him and tried to look through it, but all he could see was deep black. It was sort of like a fabric, but it was liquidy too. He waved his hand behind the silk blot, but he couldn’t see through.
Ochoa wasn’t laughing now. “What the fuck is that?” he asked, grabbing at it to try to get a better look.
> “Be careful, Och,’” Kyle said.
Kyle stuck his finger inside, and watched it disappear, as if he were poking wet sand at the beach. Ochoa sidled up next to Kyle and stuck his finger in more aggressively, then his whole hand. “What the fuck is this shit, Kyle?”
Now, Kyle was smiling. He pulled the silk blot toward him and pressed his forehead into the form, allowing the whole crown of his head to enter the strange abyss.
“Tell me if you can hear me,” he said to Ochoa, and then Kyle closed his eyes and pressed his whole head inside. “Och! Och! Can you hear me?” Kyle couldn’t hear a thing, except an echo of his own voice. He opened his eyes, but it was pitch black in there with no light source.
Kyle pulled his head out. “Did you hear anything?”
He saw a gleam in Ochoa’s eyes. “I didn’t hear nothing. But, look bro. It’s stretching,” Ochoa said. What had started out the size of a large pancake was now morphing into something the size of a pizza pie.
“What’s in there, bro?” Ochoa asked. “Let’s go all the way in.”
Myrna had told Kyle he needed to go alone. He had to try to see if there was some combination of words that could dissuade Ochoa.
“You can’t, Och’,” Kyle said.
Ochoa smiled like he always did when Kyle said something he disagreed with. “I can’t? Watch me, bro.”
Kyle put his hand firmly on his shoulder to stop him. “Dude. This is important.”
“What is it?” Ochoa asked.
Kyle took a deep breath. He couldn’t think of any words that would make Ochoa not want to join him. “I can’t tell you. I have to go, but I’ll be back soon. Just stay here, Och. Please, stay here.”
“Aight, bro,” Ochoa said. Kyle was glad he was being reasonable.
Kyle gave Ochoa a fist-bump, and then lifted the silk blot on top of himself and drew it over his head like he was putting on a shirt. Once his entire top half was inside, he lifted one leg up and in, then the other. It was a strange sensation to pass through something, but still feel like he was holding it in his hand. The silk blot felt much heavier now. Like carrying a twenty-pound pancake.
Kyle immediately bumped his head on something. He reached up with one hand and felt a curved metal ceiling right above him. He was in some kind of enclosed tunnel. He had the sensation he was on an incline as well. Between the darkness, the weight of the silk blot, and the uneven ground, he needed to drop to his hands and knees to find his balance.
As his eyes began to slightly adjust, Kyle saw U-shaped handles on the floor in front of him. The tunnel sloped upward ahead of him. He looked behind him and could see the handles continue downward far into the darkness.
“What the hell is this, bro?” Ochoa asked as he crawled up from behind Kyle. “It’s crazy hot in here.”
Kyle should’ve known better than to think he could just ask his cellmate to let him have this to himself.
“Seriously, Och, it isn’t safe for you to be here,” Kyle said. “You’ve gotta go back.”
Ochoa ignored him. “Damn, this place needs some air conditioning. It’s so hot, it’s hard to breathe,” he said.
“You serious, Och?” Kyle asked. “I don’t feel hot at all.”
“This feels like being locked in a hot car on ninety-five degree day,” Ochoa said. “My uncle did that to me and my brother once. Forgot all about us. I think this is even hotter though.”
Kyle realized that a little bit of light was radiating out from the silk blot. It had been black before, but now seemed to glow with the same dim, fluorescent tone of the lights at Stevenson Youth Correctional. As Kyle pulled himself up toward the next rung, he wondered why Ochoa felt so hot in the tunnel and he didn’t.
About fifteen minutes later, they reached a rung that was larger and had ridges running across it. Kyle brought his face closer. He groaned, pulling the heavy silk blot up for light. Etched into the rung was the year 2015. They appeared to be climbing back in time.
Kyle kept crawling along, slowly moving from rung to rung. Behind him, Ochoa was huffing and puffing. The tunnel was cramped, and pulling the heavy silk blot up the incline wasn’t easy, but even by the dim light of the silk blot, Kyle could tell Ochoa was struggling so much more than he was to pull himself to each successive rung. It was another fifteen minutes or so of climbing uphill before Kyle reached another large rung with ridges. This one read 2014.
“How we doin’, Och?” Kyle called out.
“You think . . . we’re still . . . in the facility?” Ochoa called ahead faintly, unable to catch his breath. “I need to get out of here real soon.”
Kyle waited for Ochoa to catch up and pulled the silk blot up between their faces. “Och, we’re not in Stevenson anymore.”
Ochoa just looked at him and breathed heavily. Kyle sat on one of the smaller rungs, happy to take a break if his friend needed it.
“If we ain’t in Stevenson, then are you gonna tell me what’s goin’ on?” Ochoa asked, a hint of fear in his voice. “I think maybe we should turn back.”
“Can’t do that, Och,” Kyle said. “C’mon, just follow me.”
CHAPTER 7
February 3, 1998
* * *
Eighteen years earlier
“We’re here,” Kyle called out. He could hear Ochoa clanging up the tunnel behind him, but it had been a long time since his friend had caught his breath enough to speak. There was no question Ochoa was faster, stronger and in better shape than Kyle. Kyle again wondered why he was having such a hard time, and thought about what Myrna had said about genetic predisposition. Maybe Kyle was like someone who could wiggle his ears and Ochoa wasn’t.
Almost five hours after climbing into the tunnel, they were finally approaching the large rung which read 1998. By now, Kyle’s eyes had adjusted and he could see the numbers clearly. “This is it,” Kyle said.
“Thank God,” Ochoa whispered, barely able to get the words out.
Kyle was relieved that his friend had made it at all. There were moments during the journey when he wasn’t sure he would. It seemed that as each hour passed, Ochoa’s body started to give out on him more and more. Eventually, a loud groan accompanied each movement Ochoa made as he climbed through the tunnel. Behind him, Kyle heard a regular pattern of “ugh . . . ugh . . . ugh . . . ugh,” before Ochoa finally reached a point, between the rungs for 2004 and 2003, when he curled himself into a ball along the curved wall and just refused to move. After stopping for fifteen minutes in the passageway, Kyle had to call his bluff by starting to move on without him. Thirty seconds later, Ochoa was on the move again, the ugh-ughing soundtrack continuing for the remainder of their trip.
“How, ugh . . . do we get, ugh . . . out?” Ochoa gasped as he caught up with Kyle. He hadn’t spoken much in over an hour. “So thirsty.”
Kyle pulled the silk blot up to the opening right above the rung. It looked like the slot on a vending machine where you insert a dollar bill, but much larger. “Just help me try to feed this thing into the hole,” Kyle said. The two boys lifted their exhausted arms, trying to steady the blot, one grabbing at each end. They fed the blot partially into the slot, but nothing happened.
“Rest,” Ochoa said. “I gotta rest.”
Both boys let go of the silk blot, which hung out from the slot right under the 1998 rung.
“Why’s it say 1998?” Ochoa asked.
“That’s where we are,” Kyle said. “If I can just get us out of here.” For a second, Kyle considered the idea that this could be some kind of trick. Some measure of revenge cooked up by the families of the kids from Bus #17.
Kyle pulled himself up to look at the slot, but fell forward. Before he even noticed what was happening, his top half was inside the silk blot. Hanging it in the slot had been exactly right! He reached his arm through and pulled Ochoa by the shirt.
“Mutherfucker!” Ochoa said, panting. “You did break us out.”
Myrna had said not everyone could physically handle traveling through time
. Kyle sensed that Ochoa might have gotten through it by virtue of his elite fitness, but wondered whether he could even survive the trip back. Nevertheless, unless this was some elaborate trick, they were about to step outside into the year 1998. Really step back into 1998! Kyle’s head was spinning with the revelation that time travel—or time weaving, as Myrna called it—actually existed. How come more people don’t know about this? he wondered, just as he poked his head out of the silk blot.
The moment Kyle’s eyes came through the silk blot, he was hit by blinding sunlight and the blaring noise from a machine. It sounded like a lawnmower. He took a few seconds to get his bearings as several images attacked his brain at once.
Kyle stepped forward and froze instinctively. He pulled his foot back just before he stepped out into a huge empty space in front of him. Ochoa appeared next to him. “Don’t move,” Kyle said. “And don’t look down.”
Ochoa looked wobbly on his feet and Kyle wasn’t sure what to do. They were standing on a narrow metal crossbeam, at least three stories above an active construction site. The lawnmower noise was actually a bulldozer down below, pushing a load of dirt into a huge mound. They were on the skeleton of an unfinished six—or seven-story building.
They were the only ones standing on the structure, but there was plenty of activity below them. Kyle spotted a case of water bottles sitting on the crossbeam about twenty feet away. “Stay here, Och.”
Kyle took his time and walked sideways, moving carefully across the horizontal beam and holding onto vertical ones when they were within reach. He carefully bent down and picked up a bottle of water.
When Kyle got back to him, Ochoa was sitting on the beam, his legs dangling off, staring into space. Two nearby cranes swung metal plates toward the other side of the building.
Ochoa guzzled the entire bottle of water in one sip. He was panting like a dog. Kyle heard the water come right back up before he saw it come out of Ochoa’s mouth. Kyle watched the vomit fall about forty feet down, thankfully out of the way of any of the workers below. Ochoa had a concerned look on his face. He was a guy who didn’t run up against physical limitations very often. And, even though Kyle had simply felt like moving through the tunnel was on par with a tough workout, for some reason it had been much, much more difficult for his friend.
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