I can tell by her expression that my words mean a lot to her. “Thank you,” she says softly.

“Of course.” After a moment, I add, “I wonder what kind of mental health things there might be in my history. I spent my whole life thinking about things like eye color and hair and height and stuff . . . even my voice and quirks and things. But I never really thought about mental illness.”

It’s silent for a moment. She folds and unfolds a packet of sauce. “You could try to find out. I think some of the DNA test kits offer health screening, but they’re more expensive.”

“I might, someday.” If I can ever figure out how to navigate the issue with my parents.

She looks at her phone. “Legally, ‘someday’ is in about two hours.”

“Two hours?” I ask, wiping my fingers on a napkin.

“To take a DNA test on your own, you just have to be eighteen.” She glances up at me, and that old expression is back — the one that’s pure self-doubt. “I checked online. It only took a few minutes. I just . . . I know you have a lot of questions about where you came from, and I wanted you to know that”— she glances down at her lap —“if you wanted to do it . . . I’d be there for you.”

My heart fills with warmth. “Sam. Thank you.” She has been unfathomably supportive and thoughtful — of course she’d help me.

She takes a deep breath, and her eyes flit around a little bit before landing back on the table. “There was this sale,” she says, “and free two-day shipping. So I just got one in case you wanted to have it, in case you wanted to think about it.” The rest comes out in a rush. “And if you don’t, that’s totally okay — I’ll use it myself and maybe it’ll finally confirm whether or not I’m a cyborg.”

She pulls a small box out of her coat pocket and hands it to me, and a rush of adrenaline courses through my entire body. I struggle to form words, and Sam’s brow furrows.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “It was presumptuous. Just pretend I never —”

“No! Sam. It’s not that.” I squeeze the box tighter as I realize my hands are shaking. “This is an amazing gift. But it’s just . . . It’s also terrifying.”

“What are you afraid of? Apart from hurting your parents, I mean,” she adds.

“Well, that.” I take a slow breath, hoping to calm my skyrocketing heart rate. “But also, everything — all the endless what-ifs that run through your head, you know? What if I’m the product of a rape? What if my parents were drug addicts? What if they’re dead? What if I find out something terrible?”

“You’d be okay,” she says quietly.

“How do you know?” I ask.