Hello, Universe: Chapters 17–23

One day the people cut down a gathering of trees that belonged to a majestic bird named Pah.

Pah had the wingspan of an elephant and talons as sharp as knives.

They would get lost and wander in circles and then Pah would swoop down, pluck them up, and eat them.

Pah’s talons would sever the villagers in half before they even realized they were in trouble.

The inky blackness gaped up at him, like the throat of a hungry beast. It smelled musty and dank and deathly.

The inky blackness gaped up at him, like the throat of a hungry beast. It smelled musty and dank and deathly.

The descent was unsteady. Virgil’s foot hesitated before every rung, but ultimately landed quivering—where it belonged.

The descent was unsteady. Virgil’s foot hesitated before every rung, but ultimately landed quivering—where it belonged.

But then, after what seemed like forever, there it was. Not floating in water, but slouched on its side at the bottom of the well, zipper still open just an inch, just enough for Gulliver to breathe.

A dozen images fired through his brain. He saw himself clutching a broken arm and wailing in pain.

He saw twisted ankles with the bones sticking out. A head injury that left him motionless until he finally evaporated into a skeleton. A bloody gash above his eyebrow as he slammed against the well’s rugged walls.

Virgil’s heart had been a steady drumbeat in his ears, but it quelled now.

The noises in the woods were fairly standard—the occasional tweet of some stupid bird, the faraway sound of a car driving down a road in the neighborhood, the sound of Chet’s sneakers hitting the ground—but during a particularly detailed search at the base of an ash tree, while Chet diligently poked at the ground with his branch, he heard something different.

It sounded like someone moving stealthily through the trees.

“Go fetch me water, you peasant!” he’d say, in his imaginings.

What if she was out here doing some kind of ritual sacrifice?

She crouched, peered through the trees, then stood and peered some more.

Chet mustered up the courage to make a noise that sounded like it could be an animal.

He hooted again, louder still, but she just kept walking deliberately, with her bowl.

When he’s done, I squat down and scratch behind his ears. My fingertips run along his fur. It’s coarse and damp, like he’s been rolling around in wet grass.

I like corn, but only if it’s alone, sprinkled with salt and doused in butter.

Never antagonize a snake. Don’t poke it with sticks or kick it or anything like that. Unless you want it to bite you.

He just didn’t know why his parents were so preoccupied with him “coming out of his shell.”

It seemed like the sensible thing to do, but when he opened his mouth, he imagined his cries for help sailing up, up, up, booming across the woods, shaking the leaves, frightening the birds, and landing on the thick, waxy ears of Chet Bullens.

It’s still in decent shape. Probably because it’s made of stone—all except the heavy board that covers it.

It makes me think of the Crystal Caverns, only something’s not right. I don’t know what it is, but I shudder and snatch my hands away.
Did I hear something? Or was it my imagination?

Guinea pigs didn’t do much else. They certainly didn’t ruffle anything. They didn’t have anything to ruffle.

Virgil didn’t dare open his eyes. His feet were blocks of cement, his legs were rubber bands, and his mouth was clenched so tightly that he was breathing only through his nose—but it wasn’t breathing, really. More like hyperventilating.

The sound of quick, useless breaths spurting through his nostrils filled the space, but the rustling grew even louder, and he realized now that it couldn’t be bats.
This was something fuller.
This had plumes.

Kaori Tanaka’s first word was “nomad,” even though she had no nomadic blood.

But one thing she did inherit from her parents—specifically, her mother—was a keen sense of time.

One of her first orders of business as the older sister was to teach Gen how to tell time. Unfortunately, Gen didn’t have much of a knack for it.

That was the first and last time Kaori had tried to teach Gen how to tell time, but she never stopped hounding her about one of life’s most important lessons: be punctual.

But praise be to the ancestors, Mr. and Mrs. Tanaka had Saturday errands.

She preferred not to use her phone in the chamber because she wasn’t sure how the world of the hereafter felt about such things.

It went straight to his generic voicemail.

At eleven thirty-five, she considered that something could be gravely wrong.

Kaori locked her bedroom door as Gen wiggled under the bed for the box. Once she had it, she carried it gingerly to the rug.

“He didn’t forget the appointment,” she said. “He’s been detained somehow.”

Gen was a helpful assistant but could be insufferable.