didnât know what he was looking for, but he figured that anything remotely interesting would have to jump out at him from this heap of boring .
First, he found an envelope labeled Zak . It contained some old report cards and some medical records and his birth certificate: Zakari Malcolm Killian. No big deal. There were a lot of medical recordsâa log of every doctorâs visit Zak had ever had for the heart condition that lived in his chest.
But then, under that, was another envelope. Identical. For some reason, Zakâs hand shook as he drew it from the safe, as though his hand knew something his brain didnât.
Tommy was printed on the envelope, in Momâs very steady, very neat handwriting.
Wait, what? Is this ⦠Did they call Uncle Tomás âTommyâ?
He opened the envelope and slid out the few papers within. Medical stuff again. It made his eyes want to bleed, so he shuffled the documents aside.
Birth certificate.
Thomas Oscar Killian.
What?
The birthday was the same as his own. April 27.
The. Exact. Same. Day.
Oh God.
Thomas Oscar Killian was born at 3:32 in the afternoon on April 27, approximately three minutes after Zak.
Zakâs head swam. His vision blurred, refocused, blurred again. This was ⦠this was impossible. This couldnât be happening.
One of the medical papers caught his eye. TTTS? stood out in large letters, scrawled in red pen. Underneath, someone with different handwriting and a black pen had written (Twin-to-twin transfusion syndrome).
I donât ⦠I donât understand. I donât understand.
A twin? A twin brother? Named Tommy? Zakâs arms raced with gooseflesh, and his teeth began chattering on their own. He was suddenly freezing in the middle of August, sitting in the sunlight from the window.
Where was his brother, then? Where was Thomas Oscar Killian? Why were they keeping his brother from him? Why didnât anyone ever talk about him?
What in the world was happening to his life?
That phantom sense heâd always had, that sense of something carved away from him, amputatedâit always lingered, but now it was stronger, so powerful it hurt. He could barely breathe.
He couldnât bear looking at the birth certificate any longer, so he shoved it back into the envelope and beheld the last piece of paper from the Tommy envelope.
CERTIFICATE OF DEATH was stamped officially across the top. Zak didnât want to look farther down, but his eyes were already skipping ahead, heedless of the demands of his brain, his heart, his soul.
Thomas Oscar Killian had died at the age of two and a half, of kidney failure.
No , Zak thought, and then couldnât think anymore. His brain refused to cooperate, refused to form words as his brotherâs death date seemed to come unmoored from the paper on which it was printed and to float into the middle space between him and the death certificate.
Dead.
His heart jumped. That was normal. Everyoneâs heart skipped a beat occasionally, even Zakâs.
But this time, when it jumped, it didnât come back down. It just kept rising, pressing up high in his chest until the pressure became more than he could stand, and he realized that something was wrong, something was quite desperately wrong , and he gurgled something that might have been Help , but there was no one to hear, and the next thing he knew, he was facedown on the floor and the world was shrinking into utter darkness.
Â
NINE
Zak?
Tommy? Tommy, is that you?
Zak, can you hear me?
Am I dead? Is that what happened? Am I dead like you?
Zak, can you hear me?
Yes! Yes, I can hear you!
If you can hear me, you have to understand: You canât trust him.
Trust who? Who are you talking about? Whatâs happening?
Look up. Look down. Look all around. The answers are hidden, but they are there .
What? What do youâ
Whatever you do, Zak ⦠Whatever you do, never, ever go
First, he found an envelope labeled Zak . It contained some old report cards and some medical records and his birth certificate: Zakari Malcolm Killian. No big deal. There were a lot of medical recordsâa log of every doctorâs visit Zak had ever had for the heart condition that lived in his chest.
But then, under that, was another envelope. Identical. For some reason, Zakâs hand shook as he drew it from the safe, as though his hand knew something his brain didnât.
Tommy was printed on the envelope, in Momâs very steady, very neat handwriting.
Wait, what? Is this ⦠Did they call Uncle Tomás âTommyâ?
He opened the envelope and slid out the few papers within. Medical stuff again. It made his eyes want to bleed, so he shuffled the documents aside.
Birth certificate.
Thomas Oscar Killian.
What?
The birthday was the same as his own. April 27.
The. Exact. Same. Day.
Oh God.
Thomas Oscar Killian was born at 3:32 in the afternoon on April 27, approximately three minutes after Zak.
Zakâs head swam. His vision blurred, refocused, blurred again. This was ⦠this was impossible. This couldnât be happening.
One of the medical papers caught his eye. TTTS? stood out in large letters, scrawled in red pen. Underneath, someone with different handwriting and a black pen had written (Twin-to-twin transfusion syndrome).
I donât ⦠I donât understand. I donât understand.
A twin? A twin brother? Named Tommy? Zakâs arms raced with gooseflesh, and his teeth began chattering on their own. He was suddenly freezing in the middle of August, sitting in the sunlight from the window.
Where was his brother, then? Where was Thomas Oscar Killian? Why were they keeping his brother from him? Why didnât anyone ever talk about him?
What in the world was happening to his life?
That phantom sense heâd always had, that sense of something carved away from him, amputatedâit always lingered, but now it was stronger, so powerful it hurt. He could barely breathe.
He couldnât bear looking at the birth certificate any longer, so he shoved it back into the envelope and beheld the last piece of paper from the Tommy envelope.
CERTIFICATE OF DEATH was stamped officially across the top. Zak didnât want to look farther down, but his eyes were already skipping ahead, heedless of the demands of his brain, his heart, his soul.
Thomas Oscar Killian had died at the age of two and a half, of kidney failure.
No , Zak thought, and then couldnât think anymore. His brain refused to cooperate, refused to form words as his brotherâs death date seemed to come unmoored from the paper on which it was printed and to float into the middle space between him and the death certificate.
Dead.
His heart jumped. That was normal. Everyoneâs heart skipped a beat occasionally, even Zakâs.
But this time, when it jumped, it didnât come back down. It just kept rising, pressing up high in his chest until the pressure became more than he could stand, and he realized that something was wrong, something was quite desperately wrong , and he gurgled something that might have been Help , but there was no one to hear, and the next thing he knew, he was facedown on the floor and the world was shrinking into utter darkness.
Â
NINE
Zak?
Tommy? Tommy, is that you?
Zak, can you hear me?
Am I dead? Is that what happened? Am I dead like you?
Zak, can you hear me?
Yes! Yes, I can hear you!
If you can hear me, you have to understand: You canât trust him.
Trust who? Who are you talking about? Whatâs happening?
Look up. Look down. Look all around. The answers are hidden, but they are there .
What? What do youâ
Whatever you do, Zak ⦠Whatever you do, never, ever go
Similar Books
