“I want my letters.”
Dr. Spanger tucked them back into her folder. “Sorry, Jake,” she said. “We think it’s best if I hold on to them.”
“You lied to me!” I said. Leaping at her desk, I swiped at them, but Spanger was quick and jumped back with the folder in her hand. My dad shouted and grabbed me, and a second later two of my uncles burst through the door. They’d been waiting in the hall the whole time. Bodyguards, in case I made a break for it.
They escorted me out to the parking lot and into the car. My uncles would be living with us for a few days, my mom explained nervously, until a room opened up for me at the clinic.
They were scared to be alone with me. My own parents. Then they’d send me off to a place where I’d be someone else’s problem. The clinic. Like I was going in to have a hurt elbow bandaged. Call a spade a spade: it was an asylum, expensive though it may be. Not a place I could fake swallowing my meds and spit them out later. Not somewhere I could dupe doctors into believing my stories about fugue states and memory loss. They would dope me with antipsychotics and truth serums until I told them every last thing about peculiardom, and with that as proof that I was irredeemably insane, they’d have no choice but to lock me in a padded cell and flush the key down a toilet.
I was well and truly screwed.
* * *
For the next several days I was watched like a criminal, a parent or uncle never more than a room-length away. Everyone was waiting for a call from the clinic. It was a popular place, I guess, but the minute there was an open room—any day now—I would be bundled off.
“We’ll visit every day,” my mom assured me. “It’s just for a few weeks, Jakey, promise.”
Just a few weeks. Yeah, right.
I tried reasoning with them. Begging. I implored them to hire a handwriting expert, so I could prove the letters weren’t mine. When that failed, I reversed myself completely. I admitted to writing the letters (when of course I hadn’t), saying I realized now that I’d invented it all—there were no peculiar children, no ymbrynes, no Emma. This pleased them, but it didn’t change their minds. Later I overheard them whispering to each other and learned that in order to secure me a spot on the waiting list, they’d had to pay for the first week of the clinic—the very expensive clinic—in advance. So there was no backing out.
I considered running away. Snatching the car keys and making a break for it. But inevitably I’d be caught, and then things would be even worse for me.
I fantasized about Emma coming to my rescue. I even wrote a letter telling her what had happened, but I had no way to send it. Even if I could’ve snuck out to the mailbox without being seen, the mailman didn’t come to our house anymore. And if I’d reached her, what would it have mattered? I was stuck in the present, far from a loop. She couldn’t have come anyway.
On the third night, in desperation, I swiped my dad’s phone (I wasn’t allowed one anymore) and used it to send Emma an email. Before I’d realized how hopeless she was with computers, I’d set up an address for her—[email protected]—but she was so firmly disinterested that I’d never written her there, nor even, I realized, bothered to tell her the password. A message in a bottle thrown into the sea would’ve had a better chance of reaching her, but it was the only chance I had.
The call came the following evening: a room had opened up for me. My bags had been packed and waiting for days. It didn’t matter that it was nine o’clock at night, or that it was a two-hour drive to the clinic—we would go right away.
We piled into the station wagon. My parents sat in front, and I was squashed between my uncles in the back, as if they thought I might try leaping from a moving car. In truth, I might’ve. But as the garage door rumbled open and my dad started the car, what little hope I’d been nurturing began to shrivel. There really was no escaping this. I couldn’t argue my way out of it, nor run from it—unless I managed to run all the way to London, which would’ve required passports and money and all sorts of impossible things. No, I would have to endure this. But peculiars had endured far worse.
We backed out of the garage. My father flipped on the headlights, then the radio. The smooth chatter of a DJ filled the car. The moon was rising behind the palm trees that edged the yard. I lowered my head and shut my eyes, trying to swallow back the dread that was filling me. Maybe I could wish myself elsewhere. Maybe I could disappear.
We began to move, the broken shells that paved our driveway crunching beneath the wheels. My uncles talked across me, something about sports, in an attempt to lighten the mood. I shut out their voices.
I’m not here.
We hadn’t yet left the driveway when the car jerked to a stop. “What the heck is this?” I heard my father say.
He honked the horn and my eyes flew open, but what I saw convinced me that I’d succeeded in willing myself into a dream. Standing there before of our car, lined up across the driveway and shining in the glare our headlights, were all my peculiar friends. Emma, Horace, Enoch, Olive, Claire, Hugh, even Millard—and out in front of them, a traveling coat across her shoulders and a carpetbag in her hand, Miss Peregrine.
“What the hell’s going on?” said one of my uncles.
“Yeah, Frank, what the hell is this?” said the other.
“I don’t know,” said my father, and he rolled down his window. “Get out of my driveway!” he shouted.
Miss Peregrine marched to his door. “We will not. Exit the vehicle, please.”