After everything, after all that work and sweat and danger, it was all over.
Tick was in the forest now, still running, dodging trees and brush, tripping and getting back up again, ignoring the scratches. He sucked at the air around him, forcing it into his lungs so his heart wouldn’t give up and die.
But then it finally became too much. He stopped, doubling over to take in huge, gulping breaths. Sunset had arrived and the woods had grown very dark, the trees standing as monuments of shadow all around him. When he finally caught his breath, he straightened and folded his arms around the Journal of Curious Letters.
There had to be a way to fix this. There had to be.
Tick knew that Master George somehow tracked what all of his subjects were doing. Tick didn’t know what kind of magic or futuristic device accomplished the task, but he knew his actions had been monitored. How else did Mothball and Rutger always know where and how to find him? Even in Alaska! Based on what Paul had said, they went there to give him a clue, not the other way around.
Surely Master George cared more about Tick’s intent than the mistake of Kayla burning the letter. And Tick’s intent was stronger than anything he had felt in his entire life. He wanted to see this through. He wanted to reach the end of the mystery.
He wanted it very, very badly.
Not sure if he’d finally flipped his lid once and for all, Tick screamed at the top of his lungs, belting out several words as loudly as his body could handle.
“MASTER GEORGE, I DIDN’T BURN THE LETTER!”
It hurt his throat and made him cough, but he shouted it a second time anyway.
Drawing in a deep breath through his torn throat, Tick concentrated. He had to do something. He had made his choice long ago to not burn the letter. That choice still had to mean something, didn’t it? If only he had chosen to take his journal with him to the library instead of leaving it where Kayla could find it.
He felt a funny tickle growing in the pit of his stomach, a reserve of energy he hadn’t known was there. A wave of warmth spread up from his stomach into his chest. The air in the woods stilled around him, as if the whole world hushed, waiting for him to make his move.
Tick gritted his teeth. He tapped into that quiet pool of energy, channeling the heat that filled his body and forcing it through his shredded voice box, yelling out for the third time:
“MASTER GEORGE! I . . . DID . . . NOT . . . BURN . . . THE . . . LETTER!”
The woods swallowed up his words, returning only silence. The fire in his belly flickered and then went out, leaving Tick feeling weak and shaky.
He waited, hoping he would see some kind of sign that Master George had heard him. Nothing.
Dejected, throat burning, and not knowing what else he could possibly do, not knowing if what he had done had changed anything at all, he headed for home.
Kayla sat in the middle of the living room, hosting a tea party for her three favorite dolls. Humming to herself, she passed out cups of steaming hot tea.
The front door swung open, followed by her very sad-looking brother. His clothes looked dirty, his hair was all messed up, and he was sweating.
What happened to him? she wondered. He was supposed to be at the library.
He came into the living room and knelt down beside her, pulling her into a fiercely tight hug. Kayla thought Tick was acting really weird but she finally squeezed back, wondering if he was okay.
“I’m sorry, Kayla,” he said. “I’m really, really sorry I yelled at you like that.” He leaned back from her; his eyes were all wet. “You’re a good girl, you know that? Come here.” He hugged her again, then stood up and headed for the stairs, his head hung low, that strange-looking book with his name on the cover gripped in his right hand.
Halfway up the stairs, he leaned over the railing and repeated himself. “You’re a good girl, Kayla. I’m sorry I yelled at you, okay? I know you didn’t mean to mess up my book.”
Kayla was confused. When had Tick yelled at her? Earlier, he’d been talking to his friends on the computer while she played with her dolls but he hadn’t said anything to her. And she hadn’t touched his book at all. How could she? He had taken it with him when he left for the library.
She and her dollies laughed at the silliness of boys and she poured herself another cup of invisible tea.
Tick flopped down on his bed with a groan. How could he know if screaming in the woods had done any good? Was he really going to have to agonize all weekend, waiting, then head to the cemetery on Monday night and hope for the best? Was it really all over?
With a heavy heart he opened up his Journal of Curious Letters to torture himself by studying the spot where Master George’s first letter had once been glued, safe and sound. When the front cover flipped over and fell in his lap, Tick looked at something he couldn’t understand. He stared for a very long time at the page before him, his mind shifting into overdrive trying to comprehend the message his eyes were frantically sending down the nerve wires to his brain. A message that was impossible.
The first letter was there, glued to the page like it had always been, not a burn mark or blemish to be found. It was there! How . . . ?
Master George—or someone—had just pulled off the coolest magic trick Tick had ever seen.
Kayla had just poured the last cup when she heard loud thumps from upstairs—was somebody jumping up there?—followed by happy screams of joy. It was Tick, and he sounded like he’d just received a personal letter from Santa Claus.
What a weirdo, she thought, taking a sip of her tea.
Far away, Master George sat upright in his ergonomic chair, staring at the flashing lights of his Command Center. He shook his head, feeling a bit dazed. He’d just been readying himself to . . . do something.
He couldn’t remember what exactly.
He’d been thinking about . . . Atticus Higginbottom.
But why? It was as if a bubble in his brain had popped, taking the last few minutes of his life with it. It was downright maddening—he couldn’t remember anything. Why was he even sitting in the chair? He only sat here when someone had made a Pick—or if someone had burned their letter. He shook his head. Had someone burned their letter? Had Atticus burned his letter?
He looked up at the computer screen, counting the purple check marks. No. Everyone was accounted for, the mark by Atticus’s name glowing bright and steady. That was good. The special day was coming up quickly and Master George couldn’t afford to lose a single member of the group. Especially not Atticus.