“You’re a liar! I’m gonna report this! Don’t you ever touch my son again! This is done! This is over!”

Mr. O holds a hand up, his face turned down. This, the first time he’s appeared uncollected, noncomposed. “I am so very sorry,” he’s saying. “But at least you had more time, you still have more time, please, understand that we—”

“Get the hell outa my house! Take your machines and your people and I don’t want to see you anywhere near my son! You hear me? If you come within a hundred yards of here, I’ll shoot you. I’m not playing! I’ll . . . I’ll . . . f-f . . .”

Her words falling.

Breaking.

Into bits, into letters, into wet sounds.

Her knees buckle and I push myself under her body, do my best to lower her to the floor.

Mr. O nods at his men, and they exit the house, quickly, quietly.

Then he gathers his glasses from the sofa, finds one of the arms badly bent, the frames skewed. He slips them into his shirt pocket. Runs his hand around his waist, retightening his tucked shirt. He moves slowly across the living room, the way you do when you’re not sure you want to leave.

When you know you’re leaving things undone, and worse than before you arrived. He stands with his back to us, the front door opened, framing his slender body, dusk dropping into the horizon like flour into a bowl.

The lamppost light in the yard spasms to life.

A dog barks a few doors down.

Ms. B sobs into my shirt.

Mr. O turns around, tilts his head at Whit, at me, at Ms. B.

“What happened?” I ask. “Please. What went wrong? Was it something we did?”

“Dr. Iverson told you Q was our first spontaneous reanimation?”

“So, you’re saying this is all because you didn’t have enough time to prepare?” Ms. Barrantes says, her voice broken. “You told me he’d be okay. You gave me your word.”

“I am sorry that we did not fulfill the entirety of our promise to you, Ms. Barrantes. Truly sorry,” he says. “But the work we are doing at the Center is good work. Important work. And it will go on.” His words a promise and a threat.

“You should leave,” Whit says. “Now.”

His right hand plays piano on the door, and he nods again. Holds up the peace sign. “I do wish we could’ve given you more, but I know you will use the time that remains wisely.”

Day 4

<48 Q Hours Left

29

This time we don’t know when Q will wake.

And although none of us say it, given the Center’s unreliability, we can’t even be certain that he will.

Twenty-four to twenty-eight days reduced to forty-eight hours tops?

Just like that.

Had this always been a possibility?