Ify slams back into her body.

At first, there’s only darkness, then Ify realizes it’s because she’s still wearing her helmet. From its top, thick cables extend and plug into her workspace as well as the MRI scanner holding Uzo’s body. The only sound she hears aside from the hammering of her own heart is the ever-present hum of Uzo’s body scanner and the readers, processors, and tablet computers neatly arrayed on Ify’s desk. That Ify can hear them at all speaks to how hard she’s been working them. The touchboards have been left on for far too long. Without warning, moisture pools in Ify’s eyes, the world dissolving into a blur of gray and black before she slides out of the helmet and wipes the tears away.

Slowly, she sits up. The chair adjusts to her posture, and soon, she’s leaning forward, struggling for breath. She stares at her hands and her forearms. Smooth, unlined, and brown. Yet she can feel her veins pulsing beneath her flesh. Her bodysuit compresses her chest to prevent a cough.

Reentry into the real world never seems to get easier. Sometimes, it feels as though it’s only growing more difficult. Each time, the feeling of being ripped from a reality so luscious and vivid as Uzo’s rememberings, being thrown back into this world of perpetual white, jars her bones a little harder. Sets her blood rushing a little faster. Pushes her heart just a little too close to the edge of what’s healthy.

The MRI scanner hisses, then slowly ejects Uzo’s bed. The girl knows to remain still while the bed is moving and while she’s being scanned. As soon as the bed is fully removed from the circular container, Uzo rises, leaning back on her hands. In that pose she looks every inch the carefree, comfortable teenager, growing into her limbs, learning the limits of her body as well as what new things it can do at this age. Then Ify remembers the cord extended from the outlet at the base of her neck.

“Are you okay?” Uzo asks her.

Ify nods, then slides from her chair, landing softly on the ground. Without sparing Uzo another glance, she hurries into the next room, where wireless printers spill reams of paper onto the floor. Outdated technology, but Ify finds special comfort in feeling the data between her thumb and forefinger when she picks up a length of printout. The memories.

The feel of Onyii still hangs like fog in her brain. She flexes her fingers to remind herself of who she is, then she takes the paper in her hands.