Fixing the rift

The baby kentrosaurus bumps the gate of the pet carrier in the back of my SUV. It thwacks its spiked tail against the sides, grunts with what’s probably hunger, but what I can’t help thinking of as concern — like it senses my growing nervousness as I navigate the long driveway to my little sister’s house.

Funny how I think of her that way, even though she’s pushing 40 and a better physicist than I could ever hope to be. I used to think she squandered her potential walking away from the Probability Rift project — now I know it’s yet another example of her being the smarter sibling.

Kelleigh watches me approach from her front porch, posture like she should be holding a shotgun. It’s been six years since we talked, and I don’t know what I expected,…