I’m on my driveway, facing my open front door, grocery bag in my hand, as though only two seconds, not almost two days, have passed. The grocery bag’s handle slides down my palm, then along my fingers, impossibly slowly, just as it did before I got pulled. The world tips and tilts, and I flail for balance. My head jerks up. My gaze collides with Luka’s. His eyes are wide and . . . brown. I think of Jackson. His eyes. His beautiful, terrifying eyes. Confusion and panic swarm through my thoughts, spawning questions like maggots. But Jackson’s not here, and Luka isn’t the right person to ask. The bag takes an eternity to fall to the ground, sending cans rolling in all directions. But they’re slow, too slow. I look up and see my dad coming out of the house, moving like he’s walking chest deep through a swimming pool, his expression taking forever to shift into surprise. The only things moving at regular speed are Luka and me. There’s a throbbing behind my eyes and pressure in the joints of my jaw, then my ears pop and—as Luka said last time we respawned in real life—bam, we’re back.
