MISTLETOE BECAME the eyes of Unison. An old woman embraced an old man, and two wet spots appeared on his shirt where her tears had been absorbed. A little boy urged his brand-new scoot down a grassy slope in a topside park. Throngs of happy revelers in ESCU holo-shirts clinked glasses.

Mistletoe became the ears of Unison. Microblogged thoughts and conversational fragments gathered like loose change in her mind. She learned billions of inconsequential facts like Sick day! and Running late thanks to ESC’s perfect traffic control system.

Mistletoe became the soul of Unison. She burned with envy at more talented people. She studied hard to fulfill her dreams. She failed. She succeeded. She always wanted more. She hated her parents, homework, her boss, her kids, her neighbors, herself. She loved all those things, too.

She cried.

LOL!

She tried to scream and discovered that Unison had taken her voice. Her thoughts were moving in slow motion, as if her brain were underwater. She flailed and thrashed through the thick, chattering air that surrounded her. Eventually she worked her way back to the doorway. The office was just on the other side. She stepped out into normal, breathable air. Her head unclouded. The first thing she noticed was the smell, a pleasant hint of smoky wood and lacquer. The vinegar stench from the leaking plant was gone. It was as if Unison had just decided this was the smell of a fancy office.

She blinked away the residue of raw data and looked around. Aunt Dita was gone, too. It struck her that Ambrose may have been right. Martin Truax was the brains of Unison, and it wouldn’t have been hard for him to make a vision of Dita appear in the office.

“Ambrose, let’s—”

Standing where Ambrose had been was a girl who looked like Mistletoe. Invisible mirror, she thought. Another trick. Martin was sitting at his desk, watching her expectantly.

“Welcome,” he said. There was something not quite right about him, as if in her quick absence he’d managed to get a tan and gain some weight about his face and neck. He’d also darkened the sandy waves in his hair to a solid, younger-looking brown. And his blue suit had brightened to an ugly shade of aquamarine. The mug on his desk said EXECUTIVE OF THE YEAR.

Even more perplexing was Mistletoe’s reflection. She was wearing a sleek topside outfit, a ladies’ business suit with crisp, pleated black pants and a steely gray blouse. And there was something else …

“Hi!” said her reflection, extending her hand. “I’m Anna. I’m really looking forward to being your Friend.”

No pigtail—that was it. This Anna had neat, close-cropped hair that looked as if it had never been scented or dyed. Her brightly severe expression gave a distinctly grown-up, corporate impression. Mistletoe felt like she was the target of a complicated practical joke.

“Where’s Aunt Dita?” she demanded. “Where’s Ambrose?”