"What's going on?" Claire asks, running over to see why our voices are raised.

Lily's eyes hold on to me, like she is talking me down from a ledge. Her voice is low. "Start small," she says. "I'll ask again, what do you need?"

"I need . . ." The words are dammed up. Start small. "A skirt. A red skirt!"

"What?" Claire's confusion is obvious, but her eyes are intense and clear, focusing on me like I am the whole Pacific Ocean.

"And room. I need room."

Claire looks at Lily. "What is going on?"

"Listen," Lily says. She grabs Claire by the shoulders and turns her to face me. "Just listen."

"I don't want to be your miracle anymore. I can't be your miracle anymore. I need to be here on this planet with the same odds as everyone else. I need to be like everyone else."

I slow. I take a breath. "I can't ever be really alive if I can't die, too. I need the backups. Kara's, Locke's . . . and mine." Mother's face is frozen like I am speaking babble. "I want to let them go," I whisper. She doesn't move. "Destroyed," I clarify, raising my voice, so that for once my intentions can't be twisted.

Her face loosens, goes blank. She says nothing for much too long. Now it is me, frozen, and Lily, waiting, wondering if anything I said made it through to her. And then the part in her lips closes and her shoulders pull back. "We'll stop on the way home and get you a red skirt," she finally says. She turns and walks away, only pausing for a moment to shoot Lily a stiff, cold stare.

Calculations

The ride home is quiet. I watch Lily. Mother. I see their eyes, unfocused, staring at the road ahead but not seeing it. Each of us are bound by our own thoughts, seeing the edges of our limits, maybe seeing the edges of others. How far can we push? How far can we bend? How much can we preserve? How can we get what we want? The calculations are endless, not knowing the future, not knowing how far is too far for any of us. My thoughts drift, search, calculate, remembering, jumping to the past and back again.

My baby, my precious baby, I'm so sorry.

The hospital room is dim. Her chair is pulled close. She rocks, hums, whispers, and she smiles. The smiles are the hardest to watch. They are beyond her strength, but somehow she makes them come forth.

Let me die.

Please.

I screamed the words. Over and over. But only in my head. The words couldn't get past my lips. But even as I pleaded within, hoping some message would get across, I knew. As I lay there in the hospital bed, unable to move or speak, as soon as I looked into Claire's eyes, I knew.

She would never let me go.

So much strength within her, but not the strength to let go.

I was forever her baby. Forever her miracle.

How long is forever?

Grasping

Forever adv. /. Without ever ending, eternally: to last forever. 2. Continually, incessantly, always.

There are many words and definitions I have never lost.

But some I am only just now beginning to truly understand.

Moving

Lily swings her door shut and heads off to her greenhouse, to simmer, I presume. Father is standing on the walkway talking to someone. He lifts his hand and waves but returns to his conversation. I am startled to see a visitor, since we have never before had one. The visitor's back is to me, but his girth is oddly familiar. Mother gathers two bags of groceries we stopped for on the way home. We didn't get a red skirt. It's not important. It never really was.

"Come in the back way with me, Jenna," Mother says. Her voice is near an edge I have already calculated. How far can I push? I turn, leaving her at the garage house entrance, and walk around to the front where Father talks to the visitor. They are close, keeping their words tight, like the air itself might snatch them up. Father glances at me, willing me to hurry in the door. But I linger, of course.

Tomorrow. . .

Not safe . . .

I concentrate, trying to decipher the whispered words. I detect a rush within me, an ache, and then a stillness, like the words are being whispered right into my ear. Like every available neurochip has been called to task. And they have. I have billions of available neurochips.

They're too vulnerable where they are.

I have several possibilities. By tomorrow I'll move them.

It can't be —

Traced. I know. I have it covered.

And secure.

Have I let you down yet?

She's my life, Ted.

The visitor shakes Father's hand, then turns, knowing all along that I have been watching them both. He nods in my direction, and I feel everything drop within me. He is the tourist from the mission. The one who took Ethan's and my picture.

He leaves, shuffling down the walk and sliding his wide girth into a small car that wheezes under his weight.

"Who is he?" I ask Father as he approaches me.

"It's not important," Father answers. "Let's go inside."

"I've seen him before."

Father frowns, knowing I won't let it go. "My security specialist. He takes care of. . . things."

"Like me?"

"Sometimes."

"He took my picture at the lavanderia."

"Not you. He was investigating Ethan and the community project at the mission. Making sure the risk factor was minimal."

"Is that what my life is now?"

"What?"

"A controlled risk-free cocoon for your lab pet?"

Father sighs and runs his fingers through his hair, the only nervous habit I have observed in him. "Let's not dig that up again, Jenna."