Traveler L.E. DeLano (bookreader .txt) 📖

who she hasn’t talked to in a long while. And that needs to happen.”

“Why?” I ask.

Mario shrugs. “It just does.”

“Well, that’s … cryptic.”

“Don’t try to figure it out,” Mario advises. “It’ll just make your head hurt. Leave that stuff to me.”

I’m not so sure about this blindly-following-orders stuff. How do I even know what my actions have done, really?

“You’re asking for a lot of trust here,” I point out. “How do I know I didn’t just start World War III or something?”

“It is a lot of trust,” he agrees. “But I’ve been doing this a very, very long time. And I have no reason to try to bring about an apocalypse. If you’re ever uncomfortable with an assignment, you only have to discuss it with me. I’ll do my best to allay your concerns.”

My fingers trace the edge of my desk, and my voice is quiet—and maybe a little accusing. “You didn’t warn me that my mom would be dead—in the other reality, I mean.”

“You weren’t supposed to be there very long,” he says, crossing his arms and giving me a pointed look. “I didn’t think it would come up.”

“It came up the minute I got back and felt everything she was feeling. A little warning would have been nice.”

“You have to be prepared for absolutely anything,” Mario reminds me. “And you have to keep going, no matter what gets thrown at you.”

I lift my chin and glare at him. “So I can expect more of this kind of stuff?”

“You can expect nothing but this kind of stuff. You’re dealing with realities forged by choices that were never made in your world.” His voice softens. “Every choice comes with consequences, Jessa. Every choice.”

I lean back in my chair. “Speaking of consequences … what about accidents? If a truck decides to plow me down on a crosswalk while I’m in another reality, what happens to the other me? I mean, who dies? Her or me?”

“You die, in her body.”

“And the other Jessa comes back to her reality?” This is seriously confusing.

“No. Once you’ve physically died in your reality of origin—no matter where you were when it happened—you can’t get yourself back there again,” he says. “Which highlights again the need for caution when traveling.”

“What about a reality that I don’t exist in? We can go to those like Finn does, right?”

“There’s an important distinction here that needs clarification,” Mario says. “You can go into a reality that you’ve never existed in, but you can’t go to a reality that you’ve died in. It causes too many ripple effects.”

“So if I’m out traveling and the other me jaywalks in front of a bus or something, I’m just stuck?”

“You’re a Traveler,” Mario reminds me. “You’re not ‘stuck’ anywhere. You’ll still be able to shift; it just alters your origin. Can’t have you roaming around someplace where you’re supposed to be dead. Not that some Travelers haven’t tried.”

“Really?” I lean forward, fascinated.

Mario shrugs. “It’s happened on occasion. You have to enlist another Traveler to pull you through if it’s a reality you’re blocked from. Then people write up ghost stories and your Dreamer has to do damage control.”

“What if it’s nothing serious? What if other me just likes it better at my house and won’t trade back?”

“Sometimes a Dreamer has to give somebody a nudge, but it would be useless to argue. Your Dreamer would just read you the riot act when they see you. You can’t stay awake forever.”

“You’d give us nightmares?”

“We’ve got power over your subconscious mind, Jessa. You cannot imagine the havoc we could wreak if we wanted to.”

I’m really starting to grasp how primitive people considered the Dreamers to be gods. He’s right—their kind of power could be a really terrible thing in the wrong hands. I don’t plan on breaking any rules if I can help it.

“I’m going to have Finn working with you on refining your transfers,” Mario says, pushing out from behind the desk. “I can give you all the theory and the rules behind it, but he’s got the practical know-how that will help you sharpen your skills.”

He waves his hand, and the whiteboard behind him comes to life.

“Are you ready for your next assignment?”

“Go ahead,” I sigh.

The scene is an unfamiliar pizza parlor. The place is enormous, with two levels of seating and a stage for a live band to play in the corner. There is even a bar. It couldn’t possibly be in Ardenville. We’re too small for a place like this.

“Where is that?” I ask Mario. “It can’t be in my town.”

“It’s your town, but it’s called Greaverville. The Greaver family is very prominent and owns most of the town, including this place. By the way—the drinking age was reduced to sixteen here sometime back in the forties.”

“So they funnel their money into pizza parlors?” I still can’t believe this place. There’s an arcade room off to the side, an entire sports-bar area with pool tables and dartboards and big-screen TVs, and what looks like an enclosed ball pit and play area for kids, too.

“Greaverville is five times the size you know Ardenville to be,” Mario says. “The Greavers worked hard to put this place on the map and are known for their shrewd but ethical business practices. They’re a far cry from the Greaver family as they were in your history.”

“The name is familiar,” I admit. “Greaver’s Mill Road is where I used to go for piano lessons before I told my mom I was quitting. And I think there was a Greaver’s store or something, wasn’t there?”

“There was a Greaver everything in your town at one point,” he tells me, leaning back against his desk. “They owned the local mercantile, the lumber mill, the zinc mine, the racetrack, the waterworks, and according to some scandalous newspaper articles, they owned the mayor and half the judges in the area as well—that is, until the empire crumbled around them.”

“What brought them down?”

“Shoddy construction. Bad labor policies. Too many payoffs changing hands. That kind of stuff.”