“No more samples. No more mice and no more pigs and no more monkeys. No more hundreds of tests to be certain of this or that. The old rules of science no longer apply. There’s no FDA to worry about. This is a race.”

“Then what do you want me to do? How can I speed things up for you?”

“Let me show you,” Dr. Gunn said. And with that he swiped a blank badge to open the door to the dead man’s cell and motioned for Isaac to step forward.

“I’m sorry?”

“In you go.”

Isaac, who outweighed Gunn by fifty pounds, allowed himself to be pushed into the cell. He said, “Dr. Gunn, come on, I—” and then the door shut and the locks engaged. Isaac did not throw his body against it. Or beat at it with his fists. Or beg. Or shout. He was in disbelief. Any second now, Gunn would let him out. This was just a prank. Or a mistake. A misunderstanding.

“They call you Superboy, yes?” Dr. Gunn said. “Now’s your chance to prove them right. Go on. Be super.”

The vines rustled and whispered. One by one they uncurled and tested the air and then, scenting his heat, they slithered across the floor, moving toward him. Isaac flattened his body against the wall and looked about him, though he knew there was no escape.

“You can either ingest the symbiote sample yourself,” Dr. Gunn said, his voice steaming the glass with little puffs of moisture, “or you can allow the floronic invader to merge with you.” He pulled out his pocket watch, glanced at the time. “Either way, I’m very curious to see the results. I certainly hope, for your sake, this experiment works out. Director Ricketts says you’re such a promising young man.”

6

Now

A Time of Growth

Jack’s not asleep and not awake. He’s in that in-between place that feels swimmy and misty. At first he knows only cold. His whole body is shuddering with it. He reaches for his blanket and snatches nothing but air. He tries to roll over and instead takes a step. The world rearranges itself. He’s not lying down but standing upright. He’s not in his bed but on his driveway.

He’s outside. He’s standing outside—outside his condo—in his boxer briefs and nothing else. His skin appears milky and silver. His feet are soaked through with a chill, nearly numb. When he tries to stamp some warmth into them, they feel like bricks. Something flashes in his hand. The moon. The moon is in his hand? Reflected on the blade of a knife. The Wüsthof butcher knife that Nora bought him for Christmas a thousand years ago. He is gripping it so tightly that his hand aches. He pries open his fingers and the knife falls, clattering on the concrete.