“Nice day to begin your global empire, girls,” he said, looking in the rearview mirror.

They were such exact images of each other, nearly impossible to tell them apart. He insisted every day that Lily wear red hair ties, and Ava blue. He suspected, occasionally, they switched them and went the entire day just giggling as they responded to each other’s names.

But the school insisted that there be no variation for any of the students, so they both wore the plaid headbands, their hair pulled back tight. Have to make sure everyone is on the same playing field, the admissions director had said.

So you won’t know which kid’s dad owns Google and which kid’s mom is the CEO of Warner Brothers? Quincy had asked.

He knew they had concerns about his girls. There were no official transcripts, just the test results from the tutors. The best in LA, he mentioned more than once. Yes, there was no medical history, no recommendations from anyone other than their therapists and doctors, and of course the tutors, who said they were brilliant despite their years of no education.

They were small, too. About the height of third graders, even though they were entering fifth. The admissions director had even inquired if they would feel out of place.

“Do you want the twenty million dollar new technology center or what?” he’d responded.

Yes, Mr. Martin. Thank you. Here’s your admission letters. Is there anything else we should know? What their life was like before the adoption?

Oh, there’s plenty to know, Quincy had thought. It’s been one heck of a three years.

The private investigator he’d hired had finally tracked down that the girls’ mother was a crack addict and their father was in prison. They’d lived for a time with their aunt, who slept during the day and operated a fairly successful cocaine operation at night. They lived in a trailer on the outskirts of Medora, North Dakota. The girls had never gone to school and resided in the drug community where others kids watched TV all day and scrounged for food. When the girls had just disappeared one night while playing outside, the aunt hadn’t even contacted police.

No. Nothing much to say about it, Quincy had answered.

“I know! ‘Immigrant Song’!” he said, scrolling through his phone. “It’s our fight song!”

Just as Led Zeppelin began to howl the Viking anthem, Lily turned from the window. “I don’t want to do this, Quincy. We want to stay at home.”

Ava had just nodded.

“It’s time, you Goddesses of the Air. Mrs. Ratchett and Mr. Temple say you need to be more socialized. As much as I enjoy our little compound, the world awaits. Plus, who’s going to take over my companies if you don’t get that PhD from Harvard?”

“It’s fifth grade, Quincy,” Lily mumbled.