I understand how painful this must be for Janet but I don’t say it out loud. It’s not necessary for me to remind Lucy of her history with Carrie, of all the years that have passed with us feeling safe because we were certain she wasn’t a danger to us or anyone anymore.

“We need to go.” Lucy looks up at storm clouds that have rolled in like a charcoal tarp, hanging low with tatters reaching down, a total gloom descending. “Okay we’re leaving,” she says loudly and not to me but to whoever is listening.

We head back carefully, not talking now. The wind gusts harder and the smell of rain is so strong I can taste it as I think about everything I need to do. I’ll get the metamaterial to my labs later today. At the very least I’ll confirm what it’s made of but already there are problems. I didn’t collect evidence according to my own unforgiving protocols. My DNA might be on the metamaterial or possibly Lucy’s could be. If nothing else a competent defense attorney will claim that what I just collected is contaminated because it was improperly handled. The jury won’t trust it or me.

The first drops of rain smack the trees as we emerge from them back onto the grass. In the distance, building thunderheads flash with lightning, flickering purplish-black like something shorting out, like something wounded. I smell ozone and feel the dropping barometric pressure pressing down heavily, and I’m startled by what I don’t understand at first. Music explodes out of the audio surveillance microphones all over the property. Hozier’s “Take Me to Church” is as loud as an air raid in the woods, around the house, over the water.

I look at Lucy and she’s smiling as if we’re out on a happy stroll. She doesn’t have her phone. She’s not at the controls anymore. Janet must be responsible, and I step up my pace as the music rocks fifty acres of conservation land. Pain screams in my leg and I accept that I’m going to get soaked. I tell Lucy to run ahead out of the downpour but she mimics my pace.

She stays with me and in a matter of seconds the bottom of the universe seems to burst in an explosion of thunder that sounds like gunfire. Rain pours down in the blasting wind. The temperature has dropped at least ten degrees, and Hozier is all around us as if God is enjoying a concert at the FBI’s expense.

We were born sick, you heard them say it …