Chapter 1

This is it. This is going to be the day I finally make a freaking break-through on my research. Sun scorches across the cracked New Mexican terrain, and I adjust my baseball hat, trying to keep my watering eyes on the heat wavering in the distance. Sage claw across the dirt, competing for space and water with prickly pears and the odd pink flowering cacti.

A half-full water bottle bounces against my backpack with each step I take. I grit my teeth, sweat slicking my temples. The pack weighs heavy on my back. I need it all though; it's not like I could leave my research behind, or any of my tools. Overprepared definitely seems like the best option. I grin, breathing heavily, even as sweat drips off the tip of my nose.

My research is everything to me.

I'm so close to a break-through; I can feel it in my bones.

I sidestep a cactus, and the corners of my lips turn down. Sure, my research so far has only succeeded in being ridiculed. Sure, the name Danielle Thompson —my name— is now synonymous with ‘conspiracy theorist' and ‘UFO chaser,' but it's not like I let a little light teasing and complete disbarment from my academic cohort stop me.

When you know, you know.

Besides, I'm not a UFO chaser. I'll leave that to the Air Force or whatever.

I'm chasing rips in our reality. Excitement trickles down my spine, a cool jolt that might also be attributed to the sweat pouring off me. I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand, squinting. According to my research, there should be a phenomenon here, any minute now, just like the ones I've been tracking for over a year.

The jury-rigged radio device dangling from my belt loop crackles to life, and I stop short, holding up my phone to check the coordinates. Right on target. I've checked my equations and probable reality disruption sites five times this morning alone. The radio static intensifies, and adrenaline courses through my veins as I let out a whoop.

I'm about to blow open the field on interdimensional travel, and then they'll revere the name Danielle Thompson! Ha!

I smile, and then immediately frown as sweat drips into my mouth. Yuck. I flick the phone's screen to unlock it, not a small feat, considering the fact my fingers practically drip with moisture. The portable radio sparks to life again, and my eyes widen as voices stream over the signal.

"And how about that meteor shower, Barb? Falling stars tonight, don't forget!"

Huh. It picked up a local station. I slam my palm into the thing, irritation rising. It shouldn't be picking up anything, not after I retooled the inside. The watch on my wrist beeps, my alarm going off, and excitement sends me walking forward again.

Three minutes until the rip opens. Well, if my calculations are right, which, they are. I scrunch my mouth to the side, watching the phone's coordinates to make sure I'm right on top of the spot. Well, not right on top —I don't have a death wish— but as close as I can get and safely record the phenomenon. Proof. Proof is what I need to convince everyone who laughs behind my back that I'm right. My frown deepens.

Not always behind my back, really.

The sun beats across my skin, and I check my watch again. It's really damn hot. My serviceable button-down shirt is killing me, soaking up sweat and plain gross. I would have sprung for one of those nice, wicking shirts with UV protection, but stuff like that is just not in the budget for a so-called fringe scientist.

Not fringe for long.A maniacal giggle rises to my lips. I'll show them. I toss my hair and take another step?—

The front of my shoe catches on a rock. Shiiiiit. My phone slips from my hand, thanks to my extremely sweaty palms, and skids through the rust-colored dirt about ten paces away.

"Dammit," I mutter, checking the seconds ticking away on my watch.

I have time. I take a deep breath, and carefully pick my way to the phone, avoiding prickly pear and what looks like owl droppings. Ah, the glamorous life of a scientist in the field. Another timer goes off, loud in the relative silence of the New Mexican desert. One minute.

I squat, retrieving my phone. It's filthy, caked in mud, and cracks spiderweb across the screen. I slide my fingers across it and let out a sigh of relief as the screen lights up. With another tap, I start recording. Proof is my best friend. I scrunch up my nose, considering. Maybe my only friend. I leave the video running and swipe into the compass, checking the coordinates for the billionth time. Cold air rushes across my face, immediately drying my sweat. The smell of ozone, of lightning and rain, fills my nose. A shiver wracks my body.

I narrow my eyes, swallowing a lump in my throat as I stare at my phone. The coordinates are perfect. I should be safe enough, still far enough away from the dimensional anomaly.

My eyes widen. "Shiiii?—"

My curse cuts off, and I'm falling. Hair whips around my face, my baseball cap completely torn from my head. Thanks for nothing, Albuquerque gift shop. The water bottle on my pack hits my hip, and I squeeze my eyes shut, cradling my head in my hands.

My calculations were wrong.

My theory, however, was correct.

My stomach twists, and I curl around my body, trying to protect myself. I'm in the tear, crossing an Einstein-Rosen bridge. A wormhole.

It's the last thought I have before I black out.