Scene C

This is a sample chapter from Kimberly McCoy’s forthcoming debut novel. 

Jac followed a tall scientist with short blonde hair through a guarded, locked door that opened as he swiped his bio tag across the sensor on the wall. He had introduced himself as Grant. Once through, the space opened up on either side of them about 20 feet, but continued lengthwise much farther. Along the walls and down the center of the room ran lab benches littered with beakers and flasks, incubators, pipettes, notebooks and other machines that Jac was familiar with from her genetics training. About 10 or 15 scientists were spread out working at different stations.

“This is the advanced applications lab, where we run our experiments before finalizing our modifications in the subjects,” monotoned Grant as he began moving to one side of the center lab bench. Jac knew the term ‘subjects’ to mean human beings, but even if you were as cold as a New Gen, calling them subjects rather than people probably made the work easier. Grant continued. “The basic research and simulations laboratories are through the door to our left,” he pointed as they walked by, “and clinical monitoring is to the right.” They went through neither door but instead continued straight through the lab where, at the end, Jac could see was another door. 

As she passed work stations she saw items that reminded her of her own work area at home. Newspaper clippings of scientific breakthroughs, small portraits of notable New Gen scientists and a sun lamp for busy days when one couldn’t get outside. 

But then she started seeing the images. The first one was at a workbench to her left, a researcher holding it up to study it, his monolens autofocusing on different aspects of the picture. At first, she didn’t realize what they were and thought they may just be images of family members. But that wouldn’t make sense–why would the researcher be studying it so closely? Also, the image was of the same person multiple times. Jac and Grant passed the workbench and the images before Jac could get a better look. 

But toward the middle of the room, this time on her right, Jac understood. As she passed the workbench, she saw another sheet pinned to a board of what looked like sequential mugshots. On the left side of the page, a collection of portraits of a teenage girl all showed her with a strained expression, as if she were in pain. In some she was crying. In others she was screaming. Jac could almost hear the guttural howl that would cause that expression. Jac’s eyes shifted in disgust and alarm to the collection of portraits on the right side of the page. In these the woman looked more docile and calm, but upon closer inspection–as she was almost passing the workbench–Jac realized she looked dazed and apathetic. There was no light in her eyes.

In an uncomfortable, sudden rush, she wasn’t sure if she could handle what she was about to see. Even with the large dose of voloxidan root she had taken, she could feel her pulse rising and breath quicken. It was still manageable, and she knew with Grant ahead of her for the rest of the span of the room there was time to calm down using her practiced techniques. But then she thought about the sound that the girl must have made to wear such an expression. She felt her chest tighten and her dread increase. Breath, Jac. You’ve known this day would come. You just have to get through it.

She was going to blow it. And then she would end up in this place for a lot longer than just an afternoon. She had to think of something. 

As they neared the back of the room, she spotted a waste bin in the corner. Without giving Grant time to see her expression, she swept through a break in the workbenches toward the bin. It didn’t take much effort to do what she needed, not after seeing the pictures of what amounted to torture. She bent over and dry heaved into the tall, slim waste bin. 

“Are you alright?” Grant asked from somewhere behind her, tone just as it had been before.

“I’m not sure,” Jac answered, in a voice she hoped was neutral. “Do you happen to know if the infusery uses semblic root in their tea?” 

———————

In a side office, Jac assured Grant that she didn’t need to go to the medical bay and tried to play her vomiting episode off as an annoying but minor reaction, in which a smell in the lab had tipped her nausea over the edge after her invented semblic root sensitivity began. 

“It’s not common,” said Grant. “Though I know the infusers have been complaining to the labs to design a modification for those that have it.”

“I’m fortunate it’s mild, but I should go home. I have an herb blend that calms my stomach,” which wasn’t a lie. 

“What mixture is it?” Grant asked. “We have a large selection for staff use. I can send someone to get what you need.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to use your supply. And the blend is complex. You probably don’t even have nostrobdium or phenaryl…” She cast out the most obscure plants she could think of. 

“Actually, we do grow them in the garden here,” countered Grant.

“How convenient,” was all Jac could say. 

Twenty minutes later she swallowed a bitter paste of herb mixture and they were headed back through the lab toward the human studies section. Frustrated that her diversion had only accomplished a burning esophagus and still nervous about what she was about to see, Jac worked to hide all of her emotions, knowing it was only about to get worse. But despite being thrown back into the same stressful situation, she found she wasn’t panicking. Maybe it was the thirty minutes she had had to come to terms with what she might see in the remodification sector. Perhaps it was getting sick–the violent act that had allowed her to shed some of her anxieties without suspicion. Or maybe it was the herb blend. Either way, her meditation and breathing exercises were holding her heartbeat steady–for now. 

Grant walked through the doors at the back of the lab once they slid open at his bio tag prompting. Ahead loomed a wide hallway where the lights were drastically dimmed. She could see other researchers stationed at various points down the hall, typing or dictating to holos while focused on what looked like the wall.

But as she moved with Grant forward, Jac could see that, instead of walls, the hallway was made of windows that peered into small rooms, each containing one person. They passed the first block without stopping and Jac caught a glimpse of an older boy slouching in an uncomfortable-looking chair in the middle of the room. He was still, head fallen back and arms slack by his sides. His eyes were open and his chest was moving slowly up and down, which, if it hadn’t been for that slight rhythm of his breathing, Jac may have wondered if he was alive. He was staring at a fixed point at the ceiling, mouth slightly open. 

“And you’re sure he has metabolized all the relaxant?” one researcher–Jac guessed a supervisor—asked another. 

“Yes, this is likely his final demeanor,” answered the second. 

“What a waste. He had talent.”

Grant’s voice almost made her jump. “This is the third tier of subjects. Their cases are more straightforward and are generally treated with standard protocol. About 50 percent of modifications are successful here.”

“Hmm,” Jac forced. 

Grant led Jac through a door at the end of the observation hallway, again using his bio tag, plus a key code. 

Unlike the hallway, this room opened up on either side of the entryway and was wider than it was deep. Doors flanked either side of the room. 

“Here are our second tier subjects,” Grant said as he swept his upturned palm toward the back wall, about 15 feet from where they stood. It was all glass, five observation rooms side by side holding one individual each, all kids. Jac guessed they ranged from 15 down to 9 years old. He gestured toward the doors on the sides of the room. “Through those doors are our first tier subjects, to the left preteens and teenagers, to the right, under 12.”

Cosmos, how old are the youngest? Jac didn’t want to know. 

“We’ll only be touring this section today,” Grant answered Jac’s silent question as he moved toward the farthest left observation window.

As Jac followed she glanced around the room, taking more of it in. The lights weren’t as dim here as they had been through the third tier hallway. As she glanced behind her she noticed the back wall was painted in bright, solid blocks of color, the borders of each shade aligning with the border of the observation windows. Many were bright red or orange, some a blinding white. The colors unsettled her and with a jolt Jac realized this was likely the point. 

For the first time her belief in what her mother had told her faltered. That there were others that might have a disability similar to her own. Were those colors meant to provoke an unsettled reaction? Somewhere near the chest. She could sense that her heartbeat was still steady but itched to place her hands over her heart. It’s what comforted her at home. She kept her hands at her side. 

To appear engaged in the tour, and to take her mind off of her fears, Jac asked, “What constitutes moving or admitting a subject to the second tier?”

“When viable subjects fail a remodification in the third tier, we move them here,” Grant explained. “We know fairly quickly if they need to be moved. Most third tier subjects either respond to the first remodification attempt, whether that be a success or a loss. Only about ten to fifteen percent move on here to the second tier.”

“What constitutes a loss?” Jac worked to keep the trepidation out of her voice.

“Either death or an extreme reduction in mental functioning,” Grant responded, as if talking about the junk belt forecast.

“The boy in the hallway,” Jac remembered the teenager slumped in the chair, eyes vacant of activity. “One of the first ones we walked by–that was a loss, wasn’t it?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Grant nodded. “He’s older than most children we receive, indicating poor judgement on the caregivers’ part.”

“Couldn’t it also be epigenetic?” Jac asked, knowing that such instances of genes being spontaneously turned on or off sometime after birth could happen later, often due to environmental factors. 

“It could be, but not likely in his case. We can often detect if it’s a new shift. In this case, it was not.” Grant turned to face the observation window they had stopped in front of and lowered his voice to briefly consult with the scientist taking notes there.

Jac wanted to know more but didn’t want to appear eager. There was something familiar about the boy’s case that resonated with her. Her mother had always told her that her disability was unique, that she had never heard of this flavor of “headaches” afflicting a New Gen before and that most children that went in for remodification had more apparent undesirable traits–like aggression or ineptitude.

But the boy had looked drained of all emotion, as if that were the focus of remodification. Jac supposed he could have been in recovery mode, but the scientists had clearly said his medication had worn off and this was his final state. 

Jac couldn’t help it; a shudder had run through her. She glanced up quickly and was relieved to see Grant still talking with the attending scientist. What if she was the same as the boy in the chair? That meant that she was in more danger than she had imagined. That she would end up like him if she couldn’t hide her disability. It also meant that others knew about a condition like hers, which gave her another terrifying thought. If even the full might of the New Gen’s scientific innovation team couldn’t help fix the boy, and by extension, Jac, she was terrified nothing could. 

With all of these new fears, buried under the heavy effects of the time released voloxidan root, Jac was surprised to sense another, perhaps timid emotion. Hope. That there was someone like her. 

As Grant wrapped up his conversation, the scientist nodded and began gathering his holo pads. Jac did a quick internal check. Heart rate, normal. Breathing, steady. Chest, tight, but manageable. 

Grant turned to Jac but his eyes remained on the holo pad the previous researcher had left. “This is subject 237,” he gestured toward the observation room in front of them, the person inside now in full view since the researcher had left. 

Jac’s eyes focused on the girl in the room. She was probably around 12 and had a drastically different expression from the boy in the hallway. She sat on the edge of a large, hard backed couch with wide eyes. Jac could see that she was almost noticeably rocking back and forth with her hands clasped together in her lap. Her eyes were red and puffy, but dry, fixed on a point on the ground in front of her. Jac could tell that her breathing was faster than it should be, although it looked as if she were trying hard to keep it under control.

“She was admitted here this morning after her third tier remodification failed,” Grant explained. “In this case, the first attempt neither caused positive nor negative results, so she was a good candidate for advancement.” 

Jac nodded. She did not think that she looked like a good candidate. She thought she looked like a terrified little girl. Subject 237’s posture also reminded Jac of her own when she suffered from one of her more extreme headaches. Luckily, those didn’t happen very often anymore, thanks to her coaching and medication, but the sight of the girl reminded her what it was like — to feel as if you couldn’t catch your breath, that your body was rigid and that your thoughts were spiralling and not in your control. Is this what it looks like from the outside? She felt a wave of pity for this girl, more than she had ever allowed herself. 

“What is the protocol for second tier subjects?” Jac asked, not wanting to know. 

“It depends on the subject, of course, but in this case the genetic error was extreme emotional responsiveness,” Grant answered, and Jac’s pulse quickened slightly, despite the voloxidan root. It was true, she wasn’t the only one with her condition. “In third tier experiments we attempted a basic gene deletion, plus an epigenetic sweep, but the result didn’t take. Now that the subject has recovered physically from the attempt, we’ll try a more complex combination of changes, which is more challenging to get right. That’s why the second tier success rate is lower than the third at about ten percent.”

“Just ten percent?” Jac hoped the disgust didn’t show in her voice. 

“Yes, it’s rather unfortunate. We lose about 50 citizens to remodification each year who would otherwise train to be contributing members of our society. And with our recruitment rates dropping…well,” He stopped himself. “That’s a different story. Today we are observing subject 237.” He turned back to the girl and looked back toward the holo pad in his hand. 

“Her first remodification attempt was when she was nine, which was shortly after some of her emotional genes switched on. It is not an uncommon age,” Grant explained. “While the procedure seemed to work, it was only temporary. It reverted at age 11. She underwent third tier remodification four months ago.”

So this girl had either been in treatment or recovering for four months. No wonder she looked like she did. If the process was as painful as her mother had alluded to, and this girl had been through it twice, Jac thought it was no wonder she looked as apprehensive as she did.

“Does she know what’s coming next?” Jac asked, looking back at the girl, who had now wrapped her arms around herself, eyes shut.

“Not in detail. She knows that she has moved onto the next tier of remodification but the techniques have not been revealed to her. We find this is the best method for subjects like her. It helps us better assess the level of defect.”

The last word pierced Jac’s heart. Defect? This girl wasn’t a defect. She was a human being. Jac had never wanted so much to reach out to another person. 

As if the girl had heard her thoughts, she opened her eyes and looked directly at Jac. How does she know I’m here? But then Jac realized that Grant must have switched the window in front of them to translucent from the girl’s perspective, because he was pressing a button and about to talk into a microphone. The girl must have noticed the light coming in through the moments-before solid wall and looked up. She had simply caught Jac’s eye by coincidence. Still, Jac couldn’t help but feel a need to help this girl. But how, she didn’t know. 

“Subject 237, also called Rosemary,” Grant addressed her in a dreary voice. “My name is Dr. Grant Swanson. Do you know why you are here?”

The girl straightened and attempted to mask her emotions. When she spoke, Jac was surprised and impressed at the evenness of her tone. “It seems my remodification procedure did not entirely work.”

“Correct,” said Grant. “And before that?”

Jac saw the girl shut her eyes briefly before continuing, “Before that, my previous remodification had relapsed, which made me prone to…episodes. However,” she rushed, “I believe they were stress-induced and therefore not permanent. Respectfully, I wonder if monitoring is not a better next step. We can always return to remodification if necessary.” She finished with eyes downcast again. 

All this, Jac thought, for a 12 year old? This was the first time she was truly seeing the inhumanity of her community. How could they do this? Was having emotions really that bad? Enough to justify this kind of mistreatment?

As if he hadn’t considered it at all, Grant responded. “I’m afraid that would break protocol, but rest assured our best scientists are working on a new remodification plan. First, though, we need to gather information about your inherent responses.”

At this, the girl’s eyes widened, as if she understood what may come next. 

“Please direct your attention to the screen,” Grant instructed the girl as he nodded his head toward the monitor in the corner. It was angled just enough for Jac to make out what was playing. Two peacekeepers were approaching a two-story home that looked similar to most other homes in [town]. The roof was angled with an extreme pitch so that either side of it was nearly touching the ground. Jac knew this was designed to increase the solar panel surface area, as New Gens powered their homes much the same way they powered themselves. 

The peacekeepers stepped up to the front door and knocked. Almost immediately, a stern looking man in his forties opened the door. Other than taking a moment extra to look intently at both peacekeepers, the man didn’t act as if anything was amiss. He opened the door wider and turned, moving down the central hallway. The peacekeepers followed the man as he passed the stairway leading to the second story, as did what Jac knew to be a vidbot. The man stopped in front of an open doorway, then stepped aside. Before the vidbot reached the doorframe, Jac heard a young voice let out a restrained but fearful, “No!” When the video rounded the corner the scene made Jac’s stomach drop. The peacekeepers were approaching an anguished child of maybe eight. He was holding up what looked like a ragged, homemade doll that vaguely looked like a rabbit. It was as if he thought it might shield him from the adults quickly approaching him. He was backing into a corner, glancing frantically around the room. But there was nowhere to go and it didn’t matter anyway. You couldn’t hide from a peacekeeper once they were out to get you. 

As soon as Jac had this thought the boy on the screen reflected the same understanding. He shrunk to the ground, dropping the rabbit as the peacekeepers each took an arm and escorted him out of the room. The vidbot lingered momentarily on the abandoned rabbit on the floor as the boy’s muffled sobs faded. 

“You waited too long,” said a new voice from nearby. The vidbot view rotated to show a calm woman in standard clothing speaking to the father, who nodded once. Jac searched the man’s face for any sign of remorse or anguish or suffering at the sight of having his son taken from him, but she couldn’t find it. It must be the angle, she lied to herself. 

She was so attuned to the video that she almost forgot why she was there. To observe the girl. The one who was sitting alone in a cage, acting–as Jac recognized–as if the video didn’t bother her at all. In fact, if Jac hadn’t known exactly how it felt to hide your feelings from the world, she would have thought the girl was like any other New Gen. Looking closely, maybe the girl was focused a little too much on her breathing, or was holding slightly more still than she would have been otherwise, but maybe Jac was imagining it. And then a new thought flared up in her brain. Maybe I’m really not alone. Yes, she had considered that the boy was like her, but now the possibility that a subset of the New Gen population shared her characteristics had her heart racing for an entirely different reason. And again, she remembered the girl. Her excitement turned to shame as the video interrupted her thoughts. The woman on the screen had started to speak again to the father, but it was as if someone was turning down the volume. She looked back toward Grant who was reaching for the comm box. “What did you think, Rosemary?” 

“It’s curious,” she reasoned. “He obviously needed remodification and seems to have at least come to that conclusion eventually. But the prop was disturbing. He shouldn’t have had something like that.”

“Yes, we learned that he was using it as an imaginary confidant. His father caught him with it one morning and called the peacekeepers immediately. But you knew this boy, correct?” Grant had been monitoring an array of readings on the holo screens in front of him as he was talking to Rosemary. Jac had been glancing over his shoulder, watching real time spikes in various biochemical levels. Though Rosemary was putting on a good show, Jac was worried her chemistry was betraying her. 

“Yes, he lived next to me,” she replied, emotionless to Jac’s eyes. 

Grant turned to Jac and gestured to the portion of the screen that was showing brain activity. He had turned the comm off. “What do you think?”

Jac moved up to the console. The brain activity area had two sections, one showing real time data and the other showing a time-lapse of data collected during the video showing. Next to the charts was a corresponding video of Rosemary watching the video. In both the real-time and time-lapse data Jac saw that the overwhelming amount of activity was in the frontal lobe, which was much more–she had learned in her school lessons–than non-New Gen humans. There was activity in other areas, of course. The temporal lobe for auditory processing and the occipital lobe for visuals. These both had dulled in the real time scan data. 

To the left of the brain scans were various graphs that showed hormone levels: cortisol, oxytocin, adrenaline and norepinephrine. To Jac’s relief, they all looked relatively normal. But then a small flash of light caught Jac’s eye in the brain scan data. 

“Yes, that is the concerning part,” Grant replied, having seen her reaction. Grant pulled his finger over a time bar to reverse the time-lapsed data to where the blip occurred. As it moved forward, Jac clearly saw a flash in both the amygdala and the hypothalamus and her stomach flipped. Grant’s question waited patiently for her to respond to his question. And she knew she had to, knew this was the test. The reason she was here. 

“It seems she had an abnormal reaction to the experience, briefly,” Jac stretched this last word out slightly, as if she were pondering and not grasping. She hoped it was enough. She knew it wouldn’t be. She forced her mouth to continue. “Although her biochemistry looks normal, these data show an empathetic blip in her neural processing.”

Rosemary’s head spun toward Jac, a look of betrayal on her face. Grant had turned the comm box back on. 

“Yes, it was a good attempt, but this really does indicate a need for more intense remodification,” he droned as Rosemary’s cortisol levels started to spike. 

Just then Jac heard footsteps approaching their location. She turned to see another scientist bringing a middle-aged woman to where she and Grant were standing. Her similar features told Jac this was Rosemary’s mother. She looked bored. 

“Good morning, Dana,” Grant said as he nodded to the woman. “We are just finishing up.” There was something in his voice Jac struggled to place. 

“What’s the prognosis?” she asked, barely hiding the displeasure in her voice. She had not looked at her daughter.

“Mother,” came a small, scared voice from the comm box. Dana grimaced. Jac thought she almost saw disgust. Jac desperately wanted to look back at the girl, but felt she was under the microscope as much as Rosemary. Dana continued as if she had heard nothing, staring at Grant waiting for an answer. 

“Unfortunately I think Rosemary will need to undergo advanced genetic remodification.” Dana closed her eyes as a whimper escaped from Rosemary. 

“All that energy,” Dana said, eyes opened now as she grasped her hands behind her and sighed. Finally, she turned her attention to the room. “What a waste.” She turned back to Grant. “Thank you for your efforts. I hope you learn something valuable, but statistically I understand the odds of a successful remodification aren’t high. Please keep me informed.” And then she was walking away.

As Jac chanced a look at Rosemary, she felt something in herself shift. Something hardened. In all of her years she was familiar with feelings of fear and anxiety and shame. But not anger. Not until now. But she knew she had to keep it hidden. But she wanted to use it. She just didn’t know how.

As she followed Grant back through the facility toward the entrance, Jac’s mind was turning. Grant had shown her a few more sections of the facility, but mostly technical aspects and other data processing and lab sections. She’d remained appropriately interested, focused on the act she always put on in front of people. But now she was free to think. To remember. The hopeless look on Rosemary’s face, the grimace of disgust on her mother’s face–her own mother!–and the parallels to her own mother. Jac had always had one overarching goal in life–keep mother happy. Well, maybe happy wasn’t the right word. It was a curious leftover bit of language from centuries ago, but Jac assumed it certainly didn’t carry the same meaning as it did back then. Happy today meant at balance, not perturbed. But she had looked at old records, it used to mean joy and sometimes excitement. She scoffed internally at this ironic use of the word today. No one was happy. Not that she could tell. And least of all Jac. What was the point of all of this if her only attainment could be “stay hidden?” And then Rosemary’s face popped back into her mind and Jac felt a surge of guilt. How could her society do this to people, to children? After how far they’d come scientifically, could they really not find a better way to alter people? And why did they need to be altered at all? Was the capacity for emotion really so bad? Yes, she had read about the wars and the collapse and the failed negotiations and conflicts over power and resources, but she had a hard time reconciling all of those problems with emotions. Maybe it was the incapacity to feel that had led humanity down that dark path. 

They were passing through the third tier hallway again, when another scientist approached Grant. “Ah, Dr. Parney, you have results from your epigenetic reversal study?” The tall man nodded and glanced toward Jac. 

“This is Jac. She’s here touring the facility as an option for her placement. She may be interested in your findings.”

“Actually…” His voice came out so matter-of-factly and pompous sounding that she would’ve liked anything other than listening to him drone about his work. “We’ve run into a problem I was hoping I could get your eyes on,” Dr. Parney said as he sifted through data on his tablet. Grant turned to Jac. “Excuse me for one moment.” Jac nodded and turned away from the two men politely, who continued their conversation about alleles and methyl groups. Even through her recent revelatory experience, she was interested in the research. But as she was listening to Dr. Parney’s scientific conundrum she realized where they had stopped. They were right in front of the transparent room with the older boy who had looked drugged that they’d seen on their way in. And he was looking right at her. He’d moved–or been moved–to the small bed in the corner of the room and was staring, Jac realized, not at her but out through the glass at some fixed point right about Jac’s head. She could hear the men droning in the background. “Have you assessed this in a large enough sample size to gauge if it’s just large individual variation?”…”Yes, but we’re prepping a new cohort. I hear you have a new tier one prospect. I think an altered dose could tell us…”

Just then the boy’s eyes snapped to hers. And he winked. Jac’s eyes widened in surprise. She could hear Grant and Dr. Parney continuing behind her and she turned her head slightly to covertly check if they’d seen it too. Their body language suggested not, so she swept her eyes back to the boy, but now his eyes were shut and his mouth was open. Was he sleeping? Jac was sure she saw him wink. Right? That’s not something you imagine.

“Well, the results look promising. I’ll let you know when Rosemary is moved. I agree, I think we can expedite. Adequate work, Dr. Parney.” Recognizing dismissal, Dr. Parney turned to head deeper into the facility, back where they had come. “Jac, this way.”

Grant led her back through the lab and into the solarium. They said a brief goodbye after he’d linked her his biomarked approval, and then he was gone.

Jac stared out of the backseat window as the trees passed by, their leaves rippling in uneven unison in the gentle breeze. It felt good to be alone. She was exhausted and relieved she’d made it through the day, but a flurry of bubbling emotions sat beneath the tired and calm. She was shocked at the cruelty she had seen. How could they treat a human being that way? A child? Her mind played a loop of the worst moments. When the loop ended all she wanted was to erase it from her memory. And then, a deep shame would make her feel nauseous. Rosemary had no one to help her, not in any real way at least. She would likely die in remodification. And Jac was worried about herself. Because the other emotion that had lurched into her throat was visceral fear. She was questioning her entire existence. Was her mother’s patience growing thin? Were the committee members and others she had met that day convinced she was normal? Was someone keeping an eye on her, assessing when and if she needed to be submitted for remodification? Could it happen at any time? And if so, what could she do about it? Hide? And if so, where? She had nowhere else to go. And then the loop would start again in that mixture of shame and fear. Don’t forget. You can’t go on like you didn’t just see what they’re capable of.

And then that unfamiliar twinge would ignite in her chest. Just a small flame, one that could quite possibly be contained or extinguished, but it was there. For the first time Jac was angry. And she had no idea what to do with it. It wasn’t until she was walking to her front door that she remembered the boy. His wink jumped into her mind so immediately she stopped suddenly. Then, her mother opened the door. “How did it go?”