“When on the cusp of the incredible, Jamal, we must take every precaution. We must leave nothing to chance.”

I’m not satisfied, but I know he won’t say more.

But if he spoke to Whit, then he has her number. And somehow he knows about the baby. He probably knows where we live. Was he watching our house right now?

The gravel gives way to asphalt and we pull into a clearing invisible from the road.

And that’s when we see it.

The first trace of modern technology.

Running north and south, a series of bright-orange light beams spaced evenly as far as I can see in either direction, like fence posts.

Mr. Oklahoma opens the glove box, removes two lanyards, a plain white badge dangling from each. “Put these on. It is vitally important you not remove them while in the lab.”

I want to ask what happens if we do, except I’m too busy staring at what’s ahead. I wait for us to brake, to slow down as we get closer, except we actually gain speed. Ms. B and I exchange looks.

We zip through, all of us illuminated in orange, and it’s as if somehow we’ve stopped inside the lights. Like there’s an entire room inside the beams. And I swear, on either side of us, I feel like there are eyes on us.

But in the end, we pass through without so much as a chime.

“This is where thousands of cows once crossed,” Mr. Oklahoma says, randomly, I think, until I spot a rusted SLOW DOWN, COW X-ING sign.

“What happened? Why’d it shut down?” I ask.

“Weird things were happening with the cows,” Ms. B says, and we persist down the dark road in silence.

75

You know that saying, don’t judge the Center by its cover?

The inside is everything you’d expect from a facility claiming to resurrect the dead. An expansive lobby filled with soft blue light that caroms off the concrete floor. You can see clear to the top, five levels, stacks of square glass rooms.

The black woman at the front desk, her head shaved, lips lavender, greets us. “Welcome to the Center.”

Mr. Oklahoma nods. “Cassandra will escort you to our chief scientists. You already met Dr. Iverson.”

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“A few matters require my attention. I will find you after.”

“This way,” Cassandra says, stepping toward a glass panel. “Please, Ms. Barrantes, Jamal, follow me.”

She leads us across a glass bridge, and there’s Dr. Iverson. She introduces her colleague as Dr. Langdon.

Dr. Langdon clears his throat. “Before we proceed, you should know that neither Dr. Iverson or myself, nor the Center, are in any way affiliated with the Elytown hospital, or with any hospital system. We are entirely separate entities. The Center is a privately funded medical research facility. You understand?”