In the corridor, surrounded by the pulse-throbbing glow of the Foxfire nodules, Edison felt his own pulse jackhammer. In his heart he knew—knew—that what he was seeing was not real, but it made him stutter to a stop nonetheless. The door to his makeshift home was open, too, though it had been jammed closed for a long time. Rayan had tried to keep them all sequestered, and while Edison slept, and waited and stewed in his quarters alone to fight the Foxfire in his head, he came to the conclusion that the young scientist had bought them valuable time. Being apart like that seemed to make it easier to control the fight. Not win, of course, but maintain a shred of humanity while the Foxfire bled into his every thought.

And now it was bleeding over again, and badly.

Edison stopped just inside the suit storage door, watching, listening to his mother hum an old Earth tune. They were lucky to still have a house on Earth, given the state of things. GATE, the Global Alliance Technology Effort, had convinced the United States government to start evacuations. Resources were drying up. Floods. Quakes. Hurricanes. Only government and environment critical would be allowed to stay. Diana Aries had finagled a pass for them, her long service in the army granting them reprieve.

Their neighborhood gradually emptied out, but Diana stayed. Even when Edison took his own posting and left Earth, she stayed. Whenever he got back it was the same damn thing—homemade spaghetti and his mother singing to herself at the stove. Garlic and oregano filled the kitchen, filled the house, and he was a little kid again at heart, hiding in his room, knowing his mother would be furious when she found out he had broken his record player.

The vision in front of him in the suit storage room, of Diana at the stove, flickered. Oregano and garlic. Something about that smell, all over him now, seemed to disrupt the illusion. But then it strengthened again, and oddly, the room filled with the smell of citrus. When he took one more step inside, she turned.

Oh. This day. That memory.

Diana dropped the stirring spoon at the sight of him.

“Surprise,” he said with a chuckle, but the spoon, messy with tomato sauce, hit the floor. Edison rushed to pick it up, burning himself. He swore and looked for a rag to wipe up the stain on the floor.

“That’s all right, baby,” she said. “These hands aren’t so sure these days.”

“Let me help. I’ve got you.”

Edison rinsed the spoon, stood with her at the stove. He noticed the tremor in his hand was in hers, too. His had started with the Foxfire, but hers?

“You got any good news for me? What about that promotion you were sniffing out . . .”

“No, ma’am,” Edison said, shrinking.

“Next time, then. Next time.” Her fingers went stiff, and she fumbled for the spoon.