HEAR by Robin Epstein Page B

think you’re crazy?”
    â€œKassandra, I couldn’t care less about that. The doubters are the ones who need to worry. I feel sorry that they are so lacking in imagination, but I have bigger concerns.”
    â€œLike what?”
    He sits and scoops some ice cream into his bowl. “I believe that I’m on the cusp of a truly important discovery, an innovation that could allow anyone to access these abilities. But there are still some critical steps we need to get through. One of those is making sure my test group here can perform reliably. For that to happen, you all must first be released from the bonds of conventional thought.” He looks up expectantly, waiting for me to join him at the table.
    I feel the confusion settle on my face, screwing up my features, and I sit. “The bonds of conventional thought?”
    He nods. “Here’s an example. Picture a month on a wall calendar. Now, what comes after any given Monday?”
    â€œTuesday.”
    â€œAnd after Tuesday?”
    â€œWednesday.”
    â€œ Yes, of course. On a calendar it’s very clear that each day follows the next in a straight line going from left to right, correct? That’s the ‘conventional’ way of thinking about time, like an arrow hurtling across a flat plane.” Brian sets down his spoon and sticks his finger in the air and then makes a fist. “But what if you think of time as a sphere? So even on Monday”—he points to the back of his hand—“Wednesday already exists over here.” He points to the front. “Now imagine that the sphere is transparent. If Wednesday already exists, if it’s already present at the beginning of our week, we should be able to access it Monday morning. We should be able to see into our ‘future.’”
    â€œThat’s . . . Whoa.”
    â€œDamn straight,” Brian says with a laugh, picking up his spoon again.
    As I pick up my own spoon, I have a moment of insight, or maybe I should call it foresight. My uncle has gathered his group here this summer to send us hurtling through his spherical notions of space and time. We are his crash-test dummies. He’s going to probe our heads in an attempt to make these mental connections and leaps. The HEARs are his latest, greatest hope.
    For him, “teenager” is just another word for “guinea pig.”

CHAPTER SIX
    â€œEight fifty-eight a.m. ,” Dan says, spinning on his stool in the lab when Uncle Brian and I arrive the following morning.
    The lab is spacious, even more impressive than what I imagined, knowing what I do about Henley. Several workstations, topped with thick black slate, are scattered throughout. Along the back wall hangs a twelve-foot whiteboard scribbled with intimidating formulas and a doodle of a bulldog barking, Let Me Atom! The other walls are lined with built-in glass-and-wood cabinets. Their shelves are neatly arrayed with books and scientific equipment: microscopes, scales, beakers. In one corner, a mid-century modern lounge chair sits next to a stereo system. I wonder if the people who designed this place were Swedish. It sort of has the feel of an IKEA catalog come to life.
    Dan is wearing exactly what he wore to dinner last night. From the redness of his eyes and the patchy stubble around his face, it looks like he pulled an all-nighter.
    â€œDan,” Brian asks him point-blank, “were you up the whole evening?”
    â€œ Yeah.”
    â€œUnacceptable.”
    â€œBut I was back in time for curfew,” Dan protests.
    Brian sighs. “Curfew is not my attempt to prevent you from doing things, or to keep you safe from the creatures of the night. I’ve established a curfew to get you to bed sooner because you need to get at least eight hours of sleep.”
    â€œEight hours?” Dan snickers. “I haven’t slept that much since I was a baby.”
    â€œThen that changes now,” Brian states