Ha’i. He says it like the Hebrew word chai, the sound coming from the back of his throat in a way I sometimes struggled to pronounce. Ha’i. The warmth that flows through me and tingles from my palms is life force. I’ve always thought of that feeling as more of a reaction, like a blush or a shiver.

“So, how can you touch those without them hurting you?” I ask Michael, looking at the gloves.

“Because I’m not a Sire. These”—he holds up the gloves—“are made with antimatter, which counteracts Ha’i and incapacitates Sires.”

“You’re not a Sire?” I ask. “But your cut healed so quickly.”

“Ah. Right.” He gestures toward a tube of ointment. “Where I come from, medicine is more advanced.”

“I see.” I look at his forehead, where the injury still shows, but hardly. “Well, if you guys have such great medicine, how come you haven’t shared it with everyone else?”

I don’t really have a sense for how much more advanced these exiles actually are compared to the rest of us, but I know that medical knowledge is one of the things the Families most hope to gain from them. Exactly what kind of healing are these people capable of? I can’t help but think of how ill Grandfather has been recently….

“We’ve tried,” Michael answers vaguely, his lips downturned. “A lot of our medical advancements are dependent on Sire abilities. If you understood your skills, you could have healed me without any need for the patch paste.”

Is that true? For a moment I wonder if perhaps he’s recruited the wrong person after all. As far as I know, my abilities are more likely to hurt someone than help them. Could I truly be using them to heal others?

And if there are more people out there with my abilities—all apparently capable of advanced healing—then what the hell are these supposedly idealistic people doing gatekeeping that kind of knowledge?

I get up from the bed and wander over to the window.

“I’m sorry, you must be very overwhelmed,” Michael says.

“Yes, but I’m ready for you to explain it all.” I don’t turn, but I can see his reflection through the glass. He puts down the gloves and turns to give me his full attention. I meet the reflection of his eyes.

“My people are called the Makers, and I’m from the Genesis Institute, which you would not have heard of.”

I exhale. My breath fogs up the window, and I trail my finger through the condensation.

He continues. “Though we keep our existence secret, we occasionally recruit Sires like yourself to join us.”

It’s difficult to swallow past the tightness in my throat. “Look, Michael, or whatever your real name is—”

“My name is Michael. I haven’t lied to you about anything.”

That makes one of us.