Erica O'Rourke - Dissonance

“Give me ten minutes,” I said.

“Can I—can I watch? Through the window?”

I wondered how he felt, witnessing a life that looked like his but would never be. Until now, all the people I cared about were Walkers, so I’d never had to watch their Echoes. Lonely, I thought. A different kind of loneliness than the one I’d known, but it still pinched at me.

“Of course.”

Worlds can form or fall apart in an instant.

We turned into the driveway, the door at the side of the house opened, and Simon’s Echo came out, the porch light glinting off his shaggy hair as he hefted a paper bag and took it to the recycling bin.

Behind me, my Simon froze. “That’s me.”

I shoved him into the hedge separating the cottage from its neighbor and dove after him. The branches rustled around us, and I prayed Echo Simon would blame the wind, that his tendency to notice me worked only when I was in plain sight.

There was a pause, then the sound of footsteps on gravel, diminishing as he walked back to the house. I sagged in relief.

And then I heard a sharp whistle, a metallic jingle, and the delighted bark that could only be Iggy.

“Bad dog,” I muttered.

An instant later Iggy nosed through the shrubbery, and my hand was covered in enthusiastic slobber.

“You can come out now,” Echo Simon called.

Simon grabbed for my wrist, but I shook him off.

“Stay here. Do not come out, no matter what happens,” I whispered, and stepped into view, my hair snagging in the branches. “Call off your dog.”

“Tell me why you’re trespassing,” Echo Simon replied. He shoved inky-black hair out of his eyes and peered at me. “You’re that girl. From school.”

“I’m that girl,” I said, forcing myself not to look at the shrubbery, where Iggy was still barking.

“Iggy, come,” he said, but the dog ignored him. “Who else is back there?”

“Nobody.” I widened my eyes and gave him my best smile. “I swear.”

He smirked. “You’re cute, I’ll give you that. But I’ll take the dog’s word over yours.”

I studied him, trying to figure out who this Simon was. Rail thin, lip ring, alt-metal-band T-shirt, and a look in his eyes that suggested he had at least a few of the real Simon’s memories.

He grabbed my arm and I yelped. Iggy’s barks turned frantic.

“Let go of me!” I tried to yank away, but he held fast.

“Last chance,” Echo Simon called as I struggled against him. “The dog might look goofy, but he’ll attack if I tell him to.”

“I doubt it,” the real Simon said, stepping onto the driveway, rubbing the top of Iggy’s head. “Sit, boy.”

Echo Simon dropped my arm. The dog looked between the two of them and whined in confusion.

“Oh, hell ,” I said, as the world cracked open.

“What the fuck is this?” said Echo Simon, staring at the Key World version of himself. “Some kind of joke?”

“It’s bad,” I said, grabbing Original Simon’s hand. “Very, very bad.”

Around the three of us a tear was forming—not the usual pivot but a gaping slash. Iggy turned in fretful circles, but neither boy seemed to notice it.

The dissonance pouring out of the rift was so strong I nearly dropped to my knees. “Time to go,” I said through clenched teeth.

“What about my mom?” asked Original Simon.

“Mom?” said the Echo, looking poleaxed. “What about her?”

“We have to leave,” I said, as the rip grew. Around us the world started to flicker and dim, the first stirrings of a cleaving. “Now.”

“Is she sick?” Simon asked. “Did the chemo work? Or the surgery?”

Echo Simon shook his head, eyes somber. The rusting Toyota changed to a Volkswagen and back in a blink.

They looked at each other, two versions of the boy I’d fallen for, carrying a grief so big it crossed worlds. “Simon,” I said, and they turned in unison. “My Simon. You can’t be here.”

I stumbled into him, the world wavering as the breach widened.

“What’s wrong with her?” asked Echo Simon.

“Frequency,” I gasped, as Original Simon slid an arm around my waist, keeping me upright. “Go back.”

“To the Depot?”

I nodded. We needed distance. The crack hadn’t formed until the Simons had been in close proximity. If we could get away, it might slow down; if we left, it might reverse. Most importantly, I had to keep Simon safe.

“Take my car,” said Echo Simon.

“No!” The Toyota was cycling through different vehicles. If we were in it, we might get sent to another frequency and never find our way back. “Walk.”

Original Simon shook his head. “Run,” he said, and we took off as the world around his Echo continued to crumble.

I was right about the proximity. The farther away we got from Echo Simon, the more stable I felt. Behind us the erratic pulse of the tear slowed and steadied, a heartbeat returning to normal. The world took on substance and color. But Simon urged me along, not bothering to waste air or concentration on speech. When we reached the train station, I skidded to a stop, trying to hear the Key World. Simon barely looked winded. Leaning against a light post, I wheezed, “Thanks.”

“For starting . . . whatever that was?” He waved angrily in the direction of his house. “I couldn’t hide. Not when he was—I was—hurting you.”

“You’d never hurt me, here or anywhere else. You got me out.”

I couldn’t concentrate. My mind was whirling, trying to understand what had happened, trying to grab hold of the frequency I needed. Panic left me too scattered. I couldn’t get us back on my own.

I dug in my bag for the necklace Monty had pressed into my hand. How had he known I’d need it tonight?

The pendant was a miniature tuning fork—three inches long, perfectly balanced, with the worn patina of something much loved. The chain puddled in my palm as I tilted it under the light and saw the name etched into the tines.

Rosemont Armstrong.

Monty had given me my grandmother’s pendant. Which meant she hadn’t taken it with her when she disappeared. I couldn’t think about it now, but I would. Soon.

“What’s that?” Simon asked.

“The way back,” I said, and struck it on the light post. The sound rang out, soft but true, and the Key World pivot fluttered in response. I grabbed Simon’s hand and brought us home.

Damage to the fabric of a world results in a weaker frequency, rendering the affected threads more prone to future vibrato fractums and other problems.

—Chapter Five, “Physics,”

Principles and Practices of Cleaving, Year Five

EITHER PRACTICE REALLY did make perfect, or desperation counted for more than I realized, but the return trip was easier on both of us.

Not that it was easy. My legs trembled, my lungs burned, and my head ached like a New Year’s Day hangover. Simon looked better—the benefit of being a jock, I guess.

We sat in the Jeep with the heater on full blast. It was filled with fast-food wrappers and dog toys. I never wanted to leave.

“Hell of an introduction,” he said. “Is it usually this crazy?”

I curled up against his side, listening for any hint of damage. “Usually it’s pretty calm.” Except for cleavings.

His hand moved gently over my hair, removing twigs and leaves. “Iggy recognized me.”

“My grandfather says animals are better at that kind of thing.”

He touched his lips to my forehead. “What happened back there? I couldn’t see it, but it felt bad.”

I had no idea. This was uncharted territory. Thinking out loud, I said, “It wasn’t a pivot. Those come from decisions. It wasn’t a cleaving, because you can’t stop a cleaving after it starts, and this stabilized once we left. This was like the fabric of the world couldn’t handle both of your frequencies at once, so it ripped, then wove back together when we left.”