The Return: Disney Lands (6 page)

Finn
pulled his hand out. He knew that all things DHI required trust. It had been one of the early lessons Wayne had taught them. Crossing over was as much about one’s belief as it was
about photons and high-data projection systems. Fear was a 1.6 DHI’s undoing. Confidence, his mainstay. If a geometric plane, his projection would strike the glass; if a line—the edge
of that plane—it would pass through.
Thank you, Mr. MacDonald!

He had no choice. With the Dapper Dan nearly upon him, Finn hurried back several steps, took a running start, and raced toward the glowing television. He leaped and dived, hands together like he
was diving into a swimming pool. He expected a collision, the sound of breaking glass, sparks, and possibly a fire.

Instead, his vision went oily for the second time.
He thought he heard the Dapper Dan screaming, but the man’s words were indecipherable. Somehow, they sounded almost as if they were
playing at fast-forward.

F
INN BLINKED THROUGH
blurred vision.
When it cleared, he found himself riding Jingles on King Arthur
Carrousel. He confirmed his status as a hologram by running his hand through the brass supporting Jingles.

He didn’t remember anything beyond climbing onto the horse. Though his arm stung and it felt as if he’d lost time, a few minutes perhaps, he was disappointed that nothing had
happened. In fact, he felt like a fool for
believing something would. He glanced at his watch, feeling drawn to it. It was late, but it was nearly always late when he returned.

Climbing down off Jingles, Finn caught sight of a scar on his right forearm. He leaned in for a closer look.

It wasn’t a scar, but a crude sketch of a missile. No, not a missile, but a…pen. A fountain pen, just like Walt’s.

Unable to remember how the
pen got onto his arm, he stood on the carousel, watching the park spin past, perplexed. He felt a little like he had the time he’d slipped while running around
the rec center swimming pool and thumping his head on the concrete. Dazed.

Coming out of that daze he recalled the red eyes glowing in the shadows. He ducked behind the horses, and crawled on hands and knees to the outer edge of the
carousel. He slipped off onto the
asphalt, and started running.

Racing through the dark park and around the castle, his imagination went wild. He could picture whatever creature belonged to those red eyes coming after him. He could envision the wraiths
swirling overhead, descending, shrieking with anger.

At last, he reached the Partners statue and, with the Return in hand, pushed the
button.

F
INN SAT BOLT UPRIGHT IN BED
and
peeled away the bedding to reveal he was wearing street clothes. He had a
series of red blotches on his left arm, like bee stings.

Taking a deep breath, he yanked his right shirt sleeve to his elbow.

A fountain pen was drawn on his arm.

“Well?”

He jumped, practically levitating off the mattress.

“Mom?” He pulled down his sleeve.

“You were expecting someone else?” she
said. She sat on his desk chair in her nightgown and robe.

“I was expecting you to be in your bed sleeping.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” she said.

“You scared me.”

“I don’t think you needed me for that. You looked plenty scared when you came awake.” She crossed the robe tighter at her neck as if chilly. The room was warm. “Are you
going to tell me about your arm?”

Finn held out
his forearm, hoisted his sleeve once again, and turned on the bedside light. He said nothing.

“So?”

“No big deal.”

“Walt’s pen?” his mother asked. “Looks like that to me.”

Finn withdrew Walt’s pen from his pocket and held it up for comparison. “Pretty close, I’d say.”

“And?”

“And I didn’t draw it, Mom. I’m not much as a lefty.”

She sat on the bed beside him, looked
again at his forearm.

“First of all,” Finn said, “the only pen I have on me is Walt’s fountain pen, and this drawing isn’t fountain pen ink. It’s from a ballpoint or some kind of
marker.”

“Mmmm,” she said, inspecting the sketch more closely.

“And like I said, it’s on my right arm, meaning I would have drawn it with my left. I can’t draw stick figures with my left hand, much less
something as good as
this.”

He jumped out of bed. Checked his watch. “I’ve got to call Philby and let him know I returned.”

She sat there, unmoving. “Go ahead.”

“Alone, Mom. In private.”

“Because?”

“I appreciate the concern, really. But I’m back. I’m fine. And I’m not going anywhere. I’ll see you in the morning.” Finn reached out to open his bedroom
door. Light from the
hallway winked off the face of his wristwatch.

“Mom, what’s the date?”

“Right now?”

“Right now. Today.”

“The eighth.”

“Not the seventh? You’re sure?”

“Positive. Why?”

Finn tapped his wristwatch’s crystal face. “This thing’s busted. It’s saying the seventh. It’s eleven thirty-nine, right?”

“Two thirty. We can get it looked at.”

“Two thirty! Maybe…yeah, whatever.”
He looked to the open door. “Please? We should both be asleep.”

Mrs. Whitman swooshed out of the bedroom, her robe wafting behind her like a queen’s cloak.

“I
T
’
S TWO THIRTY
,
MAN
.
I’m sleeping.
Or I was.” Philby sounded groggy.

“I returned.”

“Yes. Congratulations. And I went to bed the moment I saw the data spike indicating you had.”

“Like five minutes ago,” Finn said. “It’s not as if I’ve cost you a lot of sleep.”

“Whatever.”

“I was on King Arthur Carrousel. On Jingles.”

“I think I knew that.”

“But when I got off, Walt’s pen was drawn on my arm.”

“Drawn
by whom?”

“You sound like my mother.”

“Answer the question.”

“Not me. I didn’t see anyone else.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Which is, in part, why I’m calling you.”

“We don’t fall asleep as DHIs. Not ever. It’s not as if you nodded off and someone drew on you while you were sleeping. Text me a photo.”

Finn did. He heard Philby’s phone ding and said, “Check out the ink. The
only pen I had on me was the fountain pen. But that pen is drawn in—”

“Ballpoint or marker.”

“Exactly what I told my mother!”

“Your mother?”

“Long story. Later. Look, I didn’t draw it, and I didn’t have a pen to draw it with.”

“What about it being drawn on your other self? Your sleeping self?”

“Impossible. My mother was watching me.”

“You have issues.”

“Tell me
about it.”

“Walk me through your time in the park. Tell me what you remember.”

“Zero. I remember climbing onto Jingles and climbing off. Hey! What if this is like
Insidious
or something?”

“Inception,”
Philby corrected. “You mean
Inception
. Layers of sleep, layers of consciousness, right?”

“Right, yes.”

Philby breathed heavily into the phone. “You seriously think you entered
a wormhole and someone drew on your arm?”

“What’s a wormhole? No, I think I blacked out on Jingles. I think someone came along and drew on my arm, maybe as a message. A clue.”

“And you want me to suggest this to the others? They’ve already got one foot out the door, Finn. You know that.”

“So how did it get there?”

“No clue. A software glitch might explain the memory loss, but not
the pen. You must remember something.”

“I wish.”

“Climbing on and off Jingles. That’s it?”

“My watch messed up. It’s still running, but it’s a few hours off.”

“When you want to start making sense, I’m listening.”

“You know what?” Finn fished an image from his subconscious; felt dizzy, dazed. “When I was on Jingles…I remember holding on—to his neck, you know? Because I was
getting dizzy. I couldn’t see straight. Everything was…blurry. But I remember my watch. I think the hands were moving backward.”

“Say again.”

“It makes no sense, or maybe it does, since the date on my watch never advanced. You know how your phone resets the time to the current time zone? I think my watch did that. All on its
own.”

“But it’s just a regular watch, right? Not an Apple
Watch or something?”

“Regular old, cheap watch. A Timex. The thing has never once had a problem.”

“Except for moving backward?”

“Obviously that didn’t happen, but that’s what I saw.”

“Slow or fast?”

“What? The hands?”

“The hands were moving slow or fast?” Philby asked.

“I dreamed it, Philby. Obviously! It supports my losing consciousness. They moved fast. I’m telling
you, I blacked out. I think an Overtaker drew that pen on my arm.”

“What Overtaker? They’re gone, Finn.”

“Look, I know what you guys think of me, Philby. It doesn’t take a genius to know when you’re being mocked and teased. If you guys weren’t such good friends, it
wouldn’t hurt so much, but you are. Good friends, I mean. But I saw what I saw. I have a pen drawn on my arm. Something
happened when I was on that horse. I have no idea what. But it
happened, and if you had an ounce of kindness in you, you’d cross me back over and let me try it again. Knowing you, though, that won’t happen, so you’re stuck with crazy Finn and
his crazy drawing on his arm.”

“Are you quite done?” When Philby’s temper showed, his years in England changed his accent and his phrasing.

“I guess. Yeah.”

“The hands of your watch went backward.
Quickly.
You’re sure of that?”

“Yes.”

“You felt dizzy.”

“I said so. Yes.”

“You remember nothing until you found yourself back on Jingles, but now you have a drawing on your arm?” Philby paused for a long moment. “Finn, have you ever read Jules
Verne?”

“Never.”

“Do you know that Walt Disney loved his work?
Twenty
Thousand Leagues Under the Sea
, for one.”

“I think I could have guessed as much.”

“He most likely appreciated H. G. Wells, too.”

“Where are you going with this, Philby?”

“It’s not a question of where I’m going, Finn. It’s a question of where you’ve been.” Philby paused the way he did when his tongue couldn’t catch up
with his thoughts. Slowly, as if afraid to speak, he quoted
the words Wayne Kresky had spoken before he’d been killed.

“‘It’s about time.’”