Trying to sound like as many people as possible, I clomp-stomped across the floor to the fort. The sign declaring Fort McForterson was hanging crooked. It looked strange now, almost like a warning. I’d never realized before just how much my fort looked like a nest, a nest for some squirming, overgrown rat-people with poisonous claws and curved teeth and horrible hairy. . . .
Whoa, Maggie, rally. Another deep breath. It was still my overgrown rat-people nest, and no one had a right to be in there but me.
I crouched down, ready to jump back if anything spiny came flying out, and instantly wished I had something more impressive than a sparkly blue toothbrush and a pair of sleepy dinosaur pajama pants to defend myself with.
But hey, maybe I just heard a book falling over. This really could be nothing at all, right?
A slow ripple ran across the fort’s bedsheet ceiling, inches from my face.
Oh. No.
It couldn’t.
Three
There was definitely something. Absolutely definitely an unknown something, inside my pillow fort.
I lifted a shaking hand toward the entrance flap with my breath caught in my throat. But before I could get there, something parted the flap from the inside . . .
. . . and Samson sauntered out.
My mouth dropped open and my butt hit the floor.
Samson banged against my knee, purring. He had a piece of craft paper stuck to his snagglepaw.
“Samson, buddy,” I said, weak with relief. “What are you doing here?”
He head-butted me again. I tugged the paper from his paw, racking my brain for an explanation. Had he followed me over and snuck in behind me? Maybe . . . only no, I would have heard him clattering on the wood floor.
But how else could he be there?
I crawled into the fort to look for clues, the patchwork scarf brushing over my shoulder, and . . . and . . .
Hey, what was going on here?
The pillow Abby had knocked over earlier was lying on its side again, only instead of chair legs behind it there was another pillow. An orange-plaid pillow. With light seeping around its edges. Light coming from . . . someplace else.
As I sat there, gaping, Samson ambled past me into the fort, headed straight for the crack of light, slipped through it, and vanished.
“Okaaay,” I said to the world at large. “Oh-kay.”
Once more with the deep, slow breaths. Then I followed the cat.
I crawled into the fort, gave the new pillow a push . . .
. . . and found myself looking directly into Fort Comfy.
Ever since we were little, Abby and I had played long, intricate adventure games. In the last one before camp stole her away, we were explorers hunting for giant sapphires in the Lost Temple of the Saber-Toothed Tiger. Everything was going well until we reached the treasury, where we just couldn’t decode the strange stripey markings covering the walls. It wasn’t until I whapped one with a stick and smelled oranges that we realized the entire temple was scratch and sniff. After that, finding the secret chamber of sapphires was easy. Although getting out again wasn’t when Abby accidentally released the Saber-Toothed Guardians from the sleep ray I’d trapped them in when we arrived. Luckily, I had a spare hang glider in my bag, because even in our custom-designed adventures something could always go wrong. And I was nothing if not a seasoned veteran.
But this right here? Right now? To have it happening in real life? To actually be able to reach from my fort straight into Abby’s next door and scratch Samson’s chin? Not even my years of advanced tactical training could prepare me for that. I stared at the space betwen our forts, feeling almost seasick as my brain heaved back and forth between This can’t be happening! and Open your eyes, it is!
I crawled forward, steeling myself for a tingle or shock or shiver of energy, but there was only the soft rumble of Samson’s purring and Creepy Frog googly-eyeing me from under the squashy blanket pile.
Completely dazed, I kept moving and clambered to my feet in Abby’s bedroom. She wasn’t there.
I stepped into the hall. The bathroom door opened.
“Hey, Mags,” said Abby. She’d redone her new side braid. “What took you so long?”
I opened my mouth, then shut it again.
“Did you want to brush your teeth?” Abby asked.
I looked down, realizing I still had my toothbrush and pajamas tucked under one arm. How on earth was I going to explain what had just happened?
Answer: I wasn’t.
I grabbed Abby’s arm and pulled her into her room.
“Okay,” I said as she opened her mouth to protest. “Do you remember when we were parachuting into Oldfang Cathedral to find the lost relic of St. Claudia that held the secret code for the bank vault in Switzerland?”
Abby gave a half smile. “It’s kind of late to start a game now, isn’t it, Mags?”
“Do you remember?” I insisted. She frowned a little, fingering her braid, thinking. My heart gave a twinge. Old Abby wouldn’t have had to think. “Come on,” I said. “There were thirty of SCAR’s best secret agents trying to get there before us. . . .”
“And only you knew about the hidden door in the kitchen staircase. Okay, yeah, I remember. Why?”
“Because what I’m about to show you is like that parachute jump,” I said. “I need you to trust me here.”
The corners of Abby’s mouth twitched. “Okay,” she said. “Sure.”
She crouched down beside me, and I waved her into the fort, following right behind. The little lamp lit up the mounds of blankets, purring Samson, Creepy Frog, and, directly across from us . . .
“Hey!” said Abby, stopping dead. “What?!”
Her mouth dropped open. She looked over at me.
“I know,” I said.
“But—I mean, what?” She crawled through the gap into Fort McForterson, poked her head out of the entrance flap, and crawled back, her eyes shining.
“Mags, this is . . . We’re . . . we’re linked!”
“Uh-huh. And you know what we’ve got to do now, right?”
“Obviously.” Abby nodded. “Test the cucumber casserole out of it.”
So we did, going back and forth between the forts over and over and over. And no matter what we tried—whether
