In her backyard, on the stone patio, they set down the specimen jars. “Whatever’s inside them can wait,” she says. They have a dozen altogether, but only one matters: the one his grad student brought back to the lab. The label is discolored and peeling, but the tidy penmanship is still legible. These are the coordinates of what could very well be their source. She swipes the pine needles off a glass-topped table and they unfold a map of western Washington. Jack takes a red pen to it, marking down a location on the Sound. McNeil Island. “That’s right,” he says as if to himself. “She had mentioned this place. She’d take the ferry out. She liked to bird-watch there and thought the conditions were perfect for a fungal survey.” He bites down on the cap of the pen. “But why here? Is this a true parent site or an ancillary location?”

“It’s the parent site,” Nora says.

He tips his head to look at her. “How do you know?”

She stabs her finger down on the island, indicating a black dot. She explains that the map is outdated, that this wildlife area runs right up against the former site of McNeil Prison, which was abandoned and left to rot for several years before the state decided to rebuild.

“What did they rebuild?” he asks.

“The Black Creek Correctional Facility.” She lets this sit for a moment before finishing: “Home to Albus Crotter.”

“Oh, shit,” he says.

“Oh, shit, indeed.”

Her phone rings. She lets it go for several seconds before pulling it from her pocket. The number is unlisted, so she sends the call straight to voice mail.

“You said he’s comatose.”

“Not comatose. But the fall broke him. Shattered his spine. Severe brain damage.”

“And yet . . .”

“I think it’s safe to say he’s found a way to escape.”

“He’s the parent. The point of origin. The axis of growth for morphogenesis.”

“But why is this happening now?” she says. “It’s been five years since the meteor storm. It’s been a year since he was caught. What’s the convergence?”

“It’s also been five years of drought. Nothing’s been growing. My research has been shit because of it. Only in the past week or so did the rains start up again. Even bad things grow with water.”

“But what about him?”

“He said he was communicating with God. Maybe this is it. Maybe this is God. God as death. The comet as some manifestation of God. A messenger from the infinite void.”

“My mother would slap your face for sacrilege.”

“I know she would. I’m just spitballing here. I don’t know. Maybe Crotter was an early point of exposure? A beta model?”

“He was the key.”