“Obviously, that’s not what my mom meant. She was just trying to make the truth sound nicer than it really was. They were experimenting on the mice. Dissecting them. Studying them. When I realized this, I started to cry. I hated the idea of innocent mice suffering and dying. All ’cause of my mom.”

“But your mother needed the mice,” I pointed out. “As test subjects.”

“That’s exactly what she said. That the mice were necessary. They could be the key to our survival. But I didn’t care. I looked through the cage at my favorite mouse. Whiskers. That’s what I named him. He had a white spot on his forehead and these cute, chubby cheeks. I decided, right then and there: I was going to rescue Whiskers.”

“Did you?”

Emma nodded. “I snuck into the lab that same night and opened the door to Whiskers’s cage.”

“And?” The glow of my eyes reflected against the metal walls of Ceeron’s backpack. “Did Whiskers get away?”

“Oh, yeah. And My. Mom. Freaked. Which—looking back now—totally makes sense. I mean, rodents and bunkers? Not the best combination.” Emma chuckled. “Mom and I searched everywhere. Eventually, we gave up. We figured Whiskers would turn up again at some point. And sure enough, a few days later, he did. In the last place we ever expected.”

“Where?”

“In his cage,” she said.

I repeated Emma’s words in my memory drive a few dozen times. “I do not comprehend,” I replied. “I thought you said Whiskers escaped.”

“He did. Then he came back.”

“To his cage?”

“Yep.” A strange smile formed on Emma’s face. “Whiskers got a taste of freedom. But in the end, he decided he liked the cage better.”

I stared at Emma.

Her arms wrapped around her knees.

Unmoving.

Curled up in Ceeron’s backpack.

As if inside a narrow, metal cave.

Or cage.

And at last, I understood why she was telling us all of this.

“You feel like the mouse,” I said. “The bunker was your cage. You spent your entire life there—”

“And now that I’m out, I just wanna go back.” The words trembled as they left Emma’s mouth. “I miss my home.”

I searched my programming for something to say. Something that would make Emma feel better.

Zero results.

“Sorry for being all human and emotional.” Emma exhaled a slow breath. “It’s just . . . Life was a lot simpler in the bunker.”

“Perhaps things will be easier when you reach your destination.” I thought about the hand-drawn point on her map. The red dot. “Perhaps there you will feel at home. Eventually.”

“Maybe so.”

With these words, Emma let go of her knees. Leaning forward, she crawled out of Ceeron’s backpack and hopped onto the ground.

The four of us started moving again.

A few minutes later, I turned to Emma. “What happened to Whiskers?”

She squinted up at me. “Hmm?”