I don't remember having my own computer in Boston. But I must have had one because my name is clearly marked on the side panel. The computer is large and oddly shaped, not like any I have ever seen, a six-inch square with two ports, both unused. There is no monitor. This has to be it. This is what they don't want me to see.

I stand there, staring, trying to decide. Trust them. Or trust a whisper inside of me.

If I could get it loose, I could connect it to my Netbook upstairs and see what it contains. I reach down and touch my fingertips to my name. jenna angeline fox. My fingers tingle. Why here?

The other two don't have labels. Maybe they are mine, too? I lay my hand on the first one. Now! Hurry!

I jerk away. My head pounds. I touch the second computer, wondering at its purpose, and then I squat.

There are labels. Faint and hastily scrawled with a pen.

L. JENKINS, and K. MANNING.

What?

My knees buckle and I fall to the floor. What are — How— Why did— My thoughts trip and cut one another off. I stand up and step back, looking at the three oddly shaped boxes. Why would Mother and Father have their computers? I run from the closet down the hallway to the kitchen, where Lily keeps a drawer of basic tools. I rummage through for a screwdriver. There is no question now. I know who to trust. I find a large flat screwdriver and run back across the house to Mother's room. Mine first. Then the others. I'll connect them all to my Net-book. I'll upload the contents and see for myself. I'll upload—

I stop midway down the hallway. I see Father's eyes. Mother's desperate glance. A dark locked closet and hidden key. Upload.

We cracked the code, Jenna.

The screwdriver slips from my fingers.

Nanobots the size of blood cells are injected, sometimes even without a person's knowledge.

My feet stumble forward.

Think of a glass ball twirling on your fingertip. . . .

The walls sway. Mother's door looms.

The mind is an energy that the brain produces. . . .

I grip the frame of the closet door to steady myself.

You have to keep it spinning or it falls and shatters. . . .

I stare at the three humming boxes.

. . . we upload those bits of information into an environment that allows that energy to keep spinning. . . .

Correction. Environment. I stare at three humming black environments. Hell.

Hurry, Jenna. Come.

I can't.

I back away.

Backups. Of course.

And I run.

Shared Thoughts

The floor of the forest is damp. The blanket of eucalyptus leaves rustles beneath me. I have been lying here for hours, listening to the sounds. There are few. The leaves swishing beneath me when I turn my head or move a leg. The sighing creak of branches and limbs when the breeze pushes them farther than they want to go. The occasional hollow caw of one raven to another. The faint desperate cry of Claire calling "Jenna!" wondering where I have gone.

I hold my hands above me, my fingers fanning out in a delicate performance, my palms coming together, warm and smooth. It is real skin. Real movement. The structure listens to my neurochips. When I think clap, my hands obey, and the frenzied claps echo through the forest. My brain. / do have ten percent. The butterfly, Mother called it. My winged bit of humanity. A few ounces at most. If I believe in such a thing as a soul, did it take flight with a glistening handful of tissue? Does the soul cling to the last vestige of humanity until there is no more? If a soul can reside in a fistful of embryo, why not in a fistful of white matter?

I cup my palm, imagining a butterfly landing in it, feeling the flutter and life, and I go to a sleeping, remembering, dreamworld. I dream of golden-winged butterflies, red skirts, lopsided cakes, and Ethan's mouth on my own.

When I wake, the rickrack of sky visible above the canopy has gone from cerulean to black. The tops of the trees are barely visible, only a sliver of moon to light their edges.

"Jenna!" Mother's distant searching voice is pitiful.

I have to go back. Eventually. But not until I understand one thing. Which is the real me? The one in the closet or the one here on the forest floor?

Backup

They are sitting on the veranda as I emerge from the forest. Leaving the back door open as I ran out must have given them a clue to my direction. In another time, Mother would have called the police by now, but that is not an option anymore. Mother is the first to see me. She begins to stand, but Father reaches out and she sits again. Lily sips a glass of wine.

Walking toward them, I feel like I am interrupting a candlelit dinner party instead of a frightened vigil. Lily passes Mother a platter of stuffed mushrooms. I feel an annoyed ruffle run through me.

"It's a little late, don't you think?" Father says casually. He takes a bite of cheese and then nonchalantly washes it down with a swig of wine. His eyes are angry, glassy, but his movements are practiced restraint.

"Not too late," I answer.

"We can't keep living this way, Jenna," Mother blurts out.

Father shoots her a glance. Lily rolls her eyes.

"Welcome home, Father," I say. I reach out for a mushroom and before anyone can stop me, I pop it in my mouth.

All three stare at me, the impervious Jenna Fox, at the center of attention once again. Where are the cameras? I play the scene with an exaggerated bow.

"Dammit, Jenna!" Father slams his hand down on the glass tabletop, rattling the dishes. "You're not the first person in the world to have to deal with a disabling accident!"

"I know, Father." I sit down in the chair opposite him.