Mr. Oklahoma taps the door in front of us and the top half of it melts away into sudden transparency. I want to reach my hand out to touch it. Is this real? Has the top half actually disintegrated, or is it just clear? I settle on the latter because that would be a lot of replacement doors otherwise.

He motions for me to come closer. To look through the door window.

It’s a bedroom.

A child’s room.

And in the twin daybed a little girl sleeps.

“Who is that?”

“The girl you saved,” he answers, still staring into the room. “My daughter.”

V.

Everything clicks into place.

Why the Center wanted to bring me back.

Who Mr. Oklahoma really is.

“So, wait, you . . . you own all this? This is your lab?”

Mr. Oklahoma nods faintly. “I am the Center’s primary proprietor, yes. There are a few others that sit on a small board with me. No one should decide matters of life and death alone.”

I nod. “So, you’re some rich guy who wants to save the world?”

“The truth is, this began as a selfish project, Quincy. Nearly twenty years ago now. I lost someone who meant the world to me. And for a while it broke me.”

“But you pulled out of it.”

“I did.” Mr. Oklahoma clears his throat. “Because as much as that death took away from me, it also gave me purpose. I’m happy to say now, the work we’re doing, it’s no longer just about me. About my pain.”

“I guess sometimes it takes great loss to generate great gains.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Mr. Oklahoma says quietly.

But there was still one question. “Why was she out there alone? In the water? In the middle of the night?”

“One of our scientists is renting a house along the lake, a few doors down from where the party you attended occurred. Our daughters are close. In age and in interests. The work I do, it requires certain sacrifices. One being that we are in constant motion. Since she was born, we’ve lived in twenty-one cities. These readjustments are challenging for the adults I work with, let alone our children. Even still, I was not going to let her go to the sleepover that night. She hates thunderstorms. Always has. But . . . she told me she wanted to be brave. Convinced me this would not be like all the other times, where she would grow so frightened she called me to come pick her up. This time would be different, she told me. And I wanted that for her. For her to conquer her fears. I was proud she wanted to try. So I let her go.” Mr. Oklahoma sighs, rubs his temples.