“It is challenging to grasp. I admit there are times I too wonder if this is real. If this work is . . .” He pauses. “World hunger is a by-product of greed and could easily be resolved. As for solving cancer? We are close. The work we are doing, Ms. Barrantes, we are reverse engineering death itself. Conquer death and every domino falls swiftly—pestilence, every senseless killing, every affliction. Gone forever.”

I jump in. “No one’s mentioned a price. How much is this gonna cost?”

Mr. Oklahoma shakes his head. “This reanimation has been gifted.”

“What?” Ms. B shakes her head. “By whom?”

He adjusts his glasses. “An anonymous donor.” Mr. Oklahoma holds up two fingers at a camera mounted in the corner. “Apparently, someone believes your son to be a hero.”

“A hero?”

“There was a report he saved someone from drowning.”

Ms. B’s voice is tinged with confusion. “Wait, what do you mean? What are you saying?”

And I remember Q’s question: Is she okay? Had this been what he’d meant? Had there been someone else out there in that water? And if so, how had Q managed to save her?

“All will be explained in due time,” Mr. Oklahoma says.

“No, now,” Ms. B says firmly. “How about you tell me right now?”

But then a woman in gray scrubs materializes, waits at Mr. Oklahoma’s side. “I understand your desire to know what happened tonight, and we will make time for it. But right now, the most important matter is that we restore your son safely. Now, if you will excuse me, I will gather you shortly.”

Ms. B starts to object, but the woman in gray scrubs motions for us to follow. And I decide to keep Q’s words to myself. At least for now.

“This way, please,” our new guide says.

She leads us down a long white corridor, stopping at two doors. “Return here when you’re finished, please.”

And then she’s gone.

Ms. B and I exchange a look.

“Am I crazy, Jamal? Am I crazy to do this?”

“What do you have to lose?”

She squeezes my shoulder. “My son again,” she says, then disappears inside her dressing room.

The shower? More like a car wash.

Large enough to bathe a whole herd of cows.

Which, gross.

Anyway, the shower is fully automated.

There are no visible controls. No knobs, handles, buttons. No touchscreen. I step through the glass door and it closes silently behind me.

Three transparent arms slide up the three surrounding walls, shooting a warm, massage-like jet stream on all sides of my body.

And then a purple mist.

A rinse.

A yellow mist.

Another rinse.

The water snaps off.

I half expect an arm to pop out of the wall and dress me, but instead I slip on the new clothes, a powder-blue jumpsuit and house shoes.

Ms. B already back in the hallway.