He remembered standing in the rain with her after the tests. She’d appeared unperturbed, and he’d wondered how that could possibly be. And yet she had taken the diagnosis with the same frosty equanimity. So much so that, as they had left the medical building, he’d asked her if she had heard what the doctor said.

“Every word,” she had said. “Let’s get something to eat. I’m starving.”

Now in the bathroom, in his arms, Charlie awoke. Her chest heaved once, twice, three times, as if he had just pulled her out of a rip current in which she had almost drowned. Her eyes stared up at him, a deep umber in the light.

“My hands,” she said in a reedy whisper.

“Pink as the sands of Bermuda. How is your vision?”

“I’m looking at you, kid.” The ghost of a smile infused her face, flickering on and off like a faulty fluorescent tube.

“So all clear.”

“I guess there was a good reason for you coming back after all.” She closed her eyes for a moment, then, as if shaking off the last coils of a bad dream, opened them and said, “Get me to my feet. I dislike this position; it reminds me of how things used to be.”

Her arrow struck his armor and ricocheted harmlessly away. Almost. He unfolded his legs. Grasping one hand, he helped her up. She stood, one hand in his, the other on the edge of the porcelain sink. She looked at his left arm, grasped the curled dragon holding something in its mouth, tattooed on the inside of his elbow. Once upon a time, she had named it Violet, for the color of its furled wings. Now, she let it go, turned away, as if she found it repellent.

In the mirror, she could see that her cheeks were pink again. The blood had, indeed, rushed back to her extremities; the attack had been a mild one.

“Let’s get something to eat.” Her voice almost back to normal. “I’m starving.”

* * *

Across the street from the DARPA facility in Arlington, Virginia, was a baseball field. It was part of a public park that included a pond, which was home to a family of ducks, a couple of swans, and, on occasion, served as a stopover for geese, who seemed to love the air more than they did the ground.

It was Dr. Paulus Lindstrom’s habit to play ball with his team members in the very early mornings before reporting for work. The field—indeed, the entire park—was empty of human life then, which was just the way Lindstrom wanted it. Animals were another matter. He loved to watch the ducks swimming in circles and the swans paddling along without a care in the world. In some ways, he envied them. Then it would be his turn at bat. He approached the plate with an accelerated pulse and a firm belief something would happen. Sometimes he was right, and he hit the ball over Murphy’s head. Other times, his mighty swing produced nothing more than a dribble. He never whiffed, though.