Man, it must have been torture—Laramee being apart from his kid for so long. If my own dad was somewhere in the other world, did he feel the same way about me? He could have at least sent an interdimensional voicemail or whatever. Not so much, I guess, if he was rotting in prison—or dead. He’d cast such a long shadow over me my whole life, but if he wasn’t the decent guy I’d pictured all these years, would I even want to talk to him?

There was no use worrying about that now. I just needed to focus on the present, resting up at this ancient safe house and—what?—hoping really hard that Laramee would protect Mom? That she’d make a miraculous recovery? That nobody would find me here? It didn't sound like a recipe for a good time.

I stumbled into the living room, country cozy with a stone fireplace, and flopped into an armchair. After the insane events of today, a weariness had worked through me all the way to the bone. And yet, my mind spun like a wheel in the mud, trying to find a way save Mom, to do something for her—before she left me all alone.

After what might have been twenty minutes of honestly a little bit of spiraling, Laramee let in a tattooed med tech to prod me and rewrap my wrist, leaving me with three bottles of homemade-looking pills in repurposed retail packaging. One bottle was labeled: For aquarium and ornamental fish only.

When they left, I leaned into the chair, the accumulated exhaustion of poor sleep, adrenaline come-down, and nonstop emotions tugging at my eyelids.

Somehow I was running through a poorly lit hospital in search of Mom. I didn't understand why the overheads kept flickering, why I couldn't find her room. But then Athleisure and Stanton were behind me, giving chase with clawed hands—while my phone blew up with Matt texting me angry gibberish. Distracted, dread booming in my chest, I burst through double doors onto the bridge and crashed through a traffic barrier made of crime scene tape. Then I was falling, falling forever, a blooming mushroom cloud melting flesh from my metal bones and painting the whole world white.

I jolted awake in a flutter of panic, my hoodie soaked through, my bad tooth throbbing something fierce. Which made zero sense on a robot—unless going to the dentist was a super important part of faking the human experience. Like vomiting. Or nearly bleeding out.

The living room was in shadow, leaves brushing darkened windows. Laramee’s burner phone vibrated urgently in my pocket. How long had I slept?

I pulled out the phone, rubbing my face. It was a text from the now-familiar number.

395: I found you

I shivered. This guy? If he'd found me on a burner phone, what was to say Athleisure or Otokotronics couldn’t too?

That got me wide awake. Racing to the entryway, I peeked through lacy curtains. Stanton’s mechanical bot, apparently freshly repaired, sat in a car across the street. He was somber, a phone to his ear. Was he even keeping watch on the safe house?

Back in the kitchen, I flicked on the light and tapped out a reply.

me: you ghosted me at the office building

395: no more connection

Enough of this bullshit. I didn’t have time for games.

me: tell me who you are

395: sister you already know

me: nice try asshole

me: I don’t have a sister

At least, not anymore. Ko Prime’s body had been portaled off days ago.

395: no sister I is your brother

I blinked, sagging into a chair at the farmhouse dining table. More gibberish.

me: what?

395: sister I is your backup

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395: I is backup brother

What the hell? Was he saying I had backups, like of my brain? Was that even possible?

me: I thought they destroyed all the backups?

395: daddy maked extra

Ice crept along my spine. Was he talking about my father? Maybe Dad had kept a copy of my AI without telling anyone—back when he was supposed to be destroying backups. Or had he tried to wipe them, but didn’t hit delete as hard as he thought?

me: is he alive?

395: he is daddy

So helpful. Back when this joker ghosted me at the FBI building, I was trying to ask him about Ko Prime, whether he’d seen her before she was killed. But this talk of backups …

Something tickled at the edge of my mind and I sat up straight, my shoes pressing into the linoleum. The Talisman could copy humans into bio bots, right? Summers had said something about clinical trials—copying burn victims into bots to cheat death. So could the Talisman move Mom’s consciousness from her failing human body into a replacement? The radiation poisoning wouldn’t matter then. Mom would still be Mom—just in a new body.

Stirrings of hope kindled in my chest. This had to be the answer, like a puzzle piece I just knew would fit. I couldn’t count on the FBI’s help though, especially since they wanted the Talisman for themselves. But Garrett’s dad had designed the damned thing. He’d know the Talisman inside and out. With his help, this might work. Summers even said the process used off-the-shelf parts.

Except Mom didn’t have much time given her radiation dose, and I didn’t have Garrett’s number to call and vet the plan. I just needed to get ahold of the Talisman long enough to save Mom—while everyone else was looking for it too. This backup brother could be the key to it all.

My fingers flew across the screen.

me: what do you want?

395: out

me: of what?

me: are you still inside that office building?

395: do you know if you don’t have any monies it means you can’t leave?

Why couldn’t he be coherent for once? Was someone holding him there?

me: where are you?

395: noneywhere

Brilliant. Talk about pulling teeth.

me: why do you keep going offline?

395: they taked all my power

395: it’s not fair

What, like he couldn’t charge his phone long enough, and that’s why he kept cutting out? Agent Summers had said the Talisman consumed huge amounts of power. What if that was causing this guy’s power loss?

me: who’s stealing your power?

395: up up up

me: so like someone on another floor?

395: uh oh my connection go away

Of course. Right when I might be getting somewhere. If I wanted to save Mom in time, I really needed to talk to this guy in person—on the off chance he knew something about the Talisman. Or maybe it was just nearby, quietly siphoning his power. I knew the risk I’d be taking though, trying to break back into an FBI building with Athleisure after me. This time, I wouldn't let myself get distracted by any dumpster portals. Not that any were left after I, uh, deposited the last one into the bay.

I owed it to Mom to find the Talisman before it was too late. She was sick because of my fuckup. I’d just never forgive myself if I had this opportunity to save her and did nothing.

But Matt would say I shouldn’t do everything myself, that I should ask for help.

Maybe he was a little bit right.

I pulled out the burner phone and fired off a text to Laramee, outlining my crazy plan with the Talisman and, you know, moving Mom's consciousness to a bot. But the minutes stretched on with no response, and I began to despair.

Until there was a muffled thump outside—as if a giant sack of flour had hit the ground.

My chest just about burst open. If someone had found me, I couldn’t just sit here.

Leaping to my feet with my backpack in tow, I crept to the black mirror of a sliding glass door at the rear of the house, the deck beyond in shadow. But when I slid open the door and the night air kissed my face, the outdoor lights flicked on, flooding the deck with a bitter glare.

A well-built man in an LYPD uniform, no doubt one of Laramee’s charged with keeping watch, lay prone on the deck with his arm at an odd angle.

And behind him, reclining in a strappy lounge chair with a cool stare, was Otokotronics’ Dia Bosko.