I’ll just stick my head in, take a look, see what it’s like. If it’s a one-way journey I’ll stay here, but at least I’ll know. Just in case. She put down the can of WD-40 and once again grabbed the top of the ironing board. This time she pulled it open three inches and closed it, testing the hinge. She did that a few times to let the oil work its way into the mechanism. Okay, she thought. Now. Quinn closed her eyes and pulled the ironing board all the way down. She stood there a moment with her lids shut tight, feeling the energy from the other side, sensing her life with Eugene pulsing close by. Then she opened her eyes and looked. Like the crack in the porcelain sink, the opening appeared as an ordinary fissure—a silvery jagged line against the rough concrete. This one was vertical, and almost three feet long. Quinn put her hand toward it, feeling that familiar resistance. Quinn rose up onto her knees and ran both hands together down the length of the crack. She did it a second time, spreading her fingers like butterfly wings so that the fissure would be big enough to stick her head into.
