“Shit,” I mutter and get back in the convertible. I want to cry, but I need to stay strong. Sometimes you have to do bad things in order to manifest good things. During the second attempt, I’m fairly confident I feel the wheels crunch the skull against concrete. I hide the body in a trash bag in the garage and wait for my husband to come home.

Before the rebirth, Wyatt demanded I go into therapy. It was one of his conditions, he said. Initially, he wanted me to join him in his bereavement group, but I declined. If our baby was returning to us, there was nothing to grieve. When I began describing plans for restagings, my counselor was curious as to why I couldn’t let Setsuko make new memories. Did she have kids? I asked. She didn’t. Well, I explained, one of the frightening things you learn when you become a parent is that you can’t protect your children from life. Anything can go wrong: they can slip on the bars of the jungle gym and get a concussion, they can die of SIDS in the night, they can be kidnapped. The only power you have is to give them the best chance possible. Could I control everything that happened to Setsuko? No, I couldn’t, but since she used to be such a delightful little girl, so exuberant and charming, I was determined to provide her with the memories that made her that way.

Besides, I said, it wasn’t that strange anymore for parents to seek a duplication. Several celebrity couples have done so, like they showed in that documentary. Why shouldn’t I?

That answer seemed to placate both her and my husband. What I didn’t say was that I also plain miss my daughter, and whenever I see a flash of the old Setsuko in her new incarnation, I feel a surge of love in my chest. Yes, I think, this is how it is supposed to be. Here she is, my Setsuko.

When Wyatt comes in, I can’t wait to tell him my news. “I did it!” I exclaim. “Everything’s ready. By tomorrow, the Miruku memory will be in place.” His features pinch together. The resemblance is uncannily similar to the face Setsuko makes when I scold her for not behaving like herself.

“When you refer to ‘the Miruku memory,’ what does that mean?” he asks.

“I’ll show you,” I say.

We go into the garage, where I peel open the plastic lip of the trash bag. At the sight of the mangled feline, his face shifts from skepticism to numb disbelief. It’s not the response I had hoped for: Like father, like daughter. Wyatt can occasionally become contrary. Alas, this is an instance where he’ll need some soothing.

“We agreed you had to check with me before restaging something that would hurt Setsuko,” he says.

“We already know she gets over it without that much trouble.”

“That’s not the point,” he replies.

Then he adds, “What else have you done to her that you’re keeping from me?”