Adam took the chance and heaved himself through the window. Again, it was lucky he was so small. He slid inside easily.
He turned on the light switch. That was when he noticed the letter on the desk addressed to him.
Dear Adam,
If you find this letter, know that I am safe.
The candle factory caught on fire yesterday. The firefighters tried to put it out, but it was too late. Dad and hundreds of other people died.
My aunt and uncle are here. I’m headed north to stay with them. They’re waiting outside now, so this is the last chance I’ll have to talk to you. Maybe.
Keep the music box. I know you like it. But be careful. Its music predicts death. I’m sure of that now, though you probably know all about it already. The first time it played for me, my dog got hit crossing the street. The second time it played, my grandma died of a heart attack. And the last time it played was when you heard it through my window the other day, right before my dad and so many other people were killed.
My grandpa wanted me to have this music box. I loved him a lot, but I don’t want it anymore. I also don’t want it to go to someone I don’t trust, so I’m giving it to you.
I don’t know if you’ll find this letter, but I just have a feeling there’s a chance. I don’t know how to explain it, but I do.
I hope I’m right. And I hope we cross paths again.
Your friend,
Jack
Your friend. Adam reread the letter five times. He’d never felt so puzzled in his life.
He glanced at the other items on the desk. The candle resting in the candlestick looked and felt just like the ones Francine had given him. It smelled the same too, like lavender. Adam touched the wick of the candle. It was cold.
None of it made sense.
His gaze fell on the music box. He had been itching to inspect the item ever since he’d first heard its eerie music several weeks ago. Its handsome wood and carved features beckoned him closer. When he touched it, a tingle shot up his arm.
There was no way to wind it. Adam examined the top, the bottom, and all four sides thoroughly, but the box remained closed and silent.
Then he found initials carved smoothly into the bottom of one side, next to a tiny engraving of a compass rose: JCW.
CHAPTER SEVENTEENPERMUTATIONS
“Time traveling, huh?” repeated Victor.
The old man and Adam were sitting outside the shelter, Victor bundled snugly in his wheelchair and Adam on the curb. It was the first day of December, a sunny but chilly afternoon. Adam had to bury his hands inside his pockets for warmth. Even the sidewalk felt like ice. He shifted his legs every so often so his bottom wouldn’t freeze. Beside him, Victor peeled an orange as he listened to Adam recount his time in the town of Candlewick.
Ever since Uncle Henry shot down Adam’s stories as if they were make-believe, Adam was extra careful not to mention the snow globe to his uncle again, and especially not his strange travels through time. But the mysterious journeys kept him from sleeping at night. After his teacher sent home a note because he had fallen asleep twice in class, Adam was determined to solve the snow globe’s mysteries once and for all, for his own sanity if nothing else. Even if that meant confiding in another adult.
He chose Victor because the trusted old man had told many whimsical stories of his own. Plus, as a former mathematician, he was the likeliest person to consider the possibility of time travel without swatting the idea down as if it were a whining mosquito.
Indeed, when Adam first brought up the notion, Victor merely answered, “There are many unexplored questions in this world. Who is to say time traveling is out of bounds?”
After Adam finished recounting his adventures with the magic snow globe, Victor nodded as if Adam had told him a completely ordinary story.
“What I am most perplexed about,” said Victor, “is the music box. An object that predicts death could be very valuable—though I personally wouldn’t like to own such a thing. Some knowledge is best left unknown.”
Adam wasn’t sure if he agreed. Such an item would be valuable, though from what he’d observed, the music box only appeared to play a warning tune—nothing more, nothing less. It didn’t give any clues as to who, what, when, where, or how. More details would be helpful. If he could have foreseen exactly how and when his parents were going to die, for instance, he might have been able to save them. They’d still be living together now, in their spacious townhouse with a garden in the yard, sitting in front of the cheerful fireplace in the living room. His mother would volunteer at the school book fairs and show up at class parties like the other parents. His father would come in for Bring Your Parent to School Day. Adam would never again have to awkwardly explain to a new teacher that Uncle Henry was not his dad, but his uncle.
Victor shook his head and gave Adam a tiny smile. “Anything that has happened in the past has happened,” he said, as if reading the boy’s mind. “Thus, any changes you try to make now will have happened already, and bring you right back to where you are. The outcome, the present that we experience today, remains the same. That much I am sure of.”
“How do you know?” insisted Adam.
“Well, it’s sort of like permutations. Say you have three spoons—a bronze spoon, silver spoon, and gold spoon. You put the bronze and silver spoons down, in that order. Where does that leave the gold spoon?”
“Last—after the bronze one and the silver one.”
“Right. The
