Dark Matter

Springer says, “You haven’t published any new papers or accepted any teaching positions since 2005, when you took on the role of chief science officer with Velocity Laboratories, a jet propulsion lab. It says finally that a missing-persons report was filed on your behalf eight months ago by your brother, and that you haven’t been seen publicly in o

What if we live in a fifth-dimensional probability space? What if we actually inhabit the multiverse, but our brains have evolved in such a way as to equip us with a firewall that limits what we perceive to a single universe? One worldline. The one we choose, moment to moment. It makes sense if you think about it. We couldn’t possibly contend with

“Why do people marry versions of their controlling mothers? Or absent fathers? To have a shot at righting old wrongs. Fixing things as an adult that hurt you as a child. Maybe it doesn’t make sense at a surface level, but the subconscious marches to its own beat. I happen to think that world taught us a lot about how the box works.”

The track lights shine on the surface of my wine, and the onion is beginning to sting my eyes. Thelonious Monk spins on the old turntable in the den. There’s a richness to the analog recording I can never get enough of, especially the crackle of static between tracks.

“No, you didn’t have a FOID card. You said you needed to get cash. I don’t think you even had a driver’s license.” Now a prickling sensation trails down my spine. My knees go weak. She says, “And it wasn’t just two days ago. I got a weird vibe from you, so yesterday, I asked Gary, who also works the gun counter, if he’d ever seen you in here before

I discovered Michael Crichton. I’d seen most of the movie adaptations like Jurassic Park and Sphere, but when I started reading his books and learning about his process, something clicked. I realized that he wasn’t just coming up with cool plots. He was writing books that allowed him to explore topics that interested him. Writing a thriller as self

The downstairs bathroom with the leaky faucet. The way my kitchen smells as coffee brews first thing in the morning. All the tiny, seemingly insignificant details upon which my world hangs.

It’s a strange thing, being the parent of a teenager. One thing to raise a little boy, another entirely when a person on the brink of adulthood looks to you for wisdom. I feel like I have little to give. I know there are fathers who see the world a certain way, with clarity and confidence, who know just what to say to their sons and daughters. But

It’s staring me in the face now. My heart shuddering with rage. He did these things so he could step into my shoes. So he could have the life that’s mine. The woman I love. My son. My job. My house. Because that man was me.

All your life you’re told you’re unique. An individual. That no one on the planet is just like you. It’s humanity’s anthem. But that isn’t true for me anymore. How can Daniela love me more than the other Jasons?