The parents breathe heavily, their lungs shuddering. They slide their hands across the glass until their palms are in the center, their fingers overlapping. When the girl reaches her own hand up and stations it on the other side of the glass, her parents cry out and lower their heads as if in prayer.

The door to the hall opens and a guard enters. “Director Ricketts?”

“Can’t it wait?” she says, her eyes sharp on the parents and their child.

“I’m afraid not,” the guard says. “Something is happening.”

“Something is happening here as well. A lovely reunion.”

“Our surveillance is picking up on a biological anomaly in the Sea-Tac metro.” Another beat before he continues. “A fungal event.”

This finally gets her attention. “Do you mean like what we encountered in the Olympics? Is there more growth?”

“More growth of a different kind. Several hospitals are reporting patients having psychotic episodes that appear to be tied to fungal infections. And the police scanner—”

“Show me.”

She always smiles. But Isaac has learned to read the curve of her mouth, the flex of her cheeks. When she is angry, she shows all her teeth and widens her eyes until they seemed peeled entirely of their lids. When she’s disappointed, her face droops even as her smile curls upward. When she’s intrigued, as she is now, one side of her mouth rises higher than the other, a crescent cutting her cheek. “Back in a jiff,” she says and nods at Isaac, indicating he will continue to monitor the parents until she returns.

The father seems oblivious to anything except the girl. But the mother—Nora—turns toward the sound of the door clicking shut. She notes that Ricketts has left and focuses her attention on Isaac. “You can’t keep us from her.”

“There are risks.”

“Fuck the risks.” There is a hard finality to her voice, but it is offset by the tears flooding her eyes. “Put us in suits, if you have to, but let us in. Please let us in.”

Ten minutes later, the air lock hisses open. Through the doorway comes a flood of UV light the blue-silver of a star. In the chamber, Nora and Jack lumber forward, their shapes as slow and bulky as astronauts in their hazmat suits.

Isaac expected them to rush forward, but once inside the lab, they pause. The next few steps must feel impossible. Their daughter is waiting for them. Standing ten yards away. Jack holds out his arms, as if to welcome her into a hug, and the girl shadows the gesture, mimicking the movement.

There isn’t time to stop what happens next. First Jack and then Nora unzip their suits and flop back their hoods. They rush toward her.

The guard in the control room says, “Should I go in?” and Isaac says, “No. There’s no point now. They’ve made their choice.”