Mary found that she had free run of the fair. She could explore all places, interact with all of Pugsy’s Afterlights— but one place was off-limits. The glass-domed agricultural building. All entrances were perpetually guarded, and when Mary questioned Pugsy about it, he merely said, “It’s my business. If you got a problem with it, too bad.”

On her third night of freedom, Mary decided it was time to rid Chicago of its secrets. She went to the agricultural building alone, circling it, counting the entrances—five in all—and searching out the guard who looked the least intelligent, and most unhappy in his situation. She found the perfect specimen at the northeast entry.

“Good evening,” she said, as she approached. She tried to get past him and through the door without slowing down, but the guard put out his hand and she intentionally bumped into it. It had the desired effect—he looked embarrassed at having touched her.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, as indignantly as she could.

“I’m sorry, Miss Mary,” he said, “but no one’s allowed to come in here.”

“But haven’t you heard? Your boss and I have a partnership, which means I have no secrets from him, and he has none from me. Now could you please open the door and let me pass?”

The guard looked uncertain, like this might be a trick question. “I’m sorry, but without a direct order from the Death Boss—”

“Just a few days into our partnership, and our agreement is already being broken,” said Mary in an exaggerated huff. “I’ll have to take this up with Mr. Capone. What’s your name?”

What began as mild awkwardness now turned into sheer terror. “Why do you need to know my name?”

“Never mind,” she said, looking him up and down. “I’m sure I can describe you well enough to Mr. Capone.”

“But … but we’re not allowed to let anyone in without a direct order… .” His voice had become whiny and pleading. All it took was a silent glare and he caved, not only letting her in, but opening the door, with a bow, and closing it behind her.

She wasn’t quite sure what she was expecting to see, but Mary, who had seen just about everything was rarely caught off guard. This was one of those times.

Beneath the crystal dome that once housed a vast variety of plant life, were children—hundreds of them, all asleep and curled up in fetal positions. They were dead, yet not dead. They weren’t quite Afterlights, for they didn’t have any afterglow.

“What is this place …?” she said, not even realizing she said it aloud.

“We call it the incubator.”