"No it isn't," Pressia says.

"Yes, it is," Bradwell says, emphatically.

"None of our chips are live. Who would ever care about us, stumbling around out here with nothing?"

"For whatever reason, they were herding you and Partridge together. It's obvious to me now," Bradwell says to Pressia. He turns to Our Good Mother. "Are there any doctors or nurses here? Someone skilled?"

Our Good Mother walks around Pressia and stops at her back. She takes a handful of Pressia's hair and lifts it, baring her neck. She touches a scar on the back of Pressia's neck, an old, dulled knot. Pressia feels a chill run down her spine. She doesn't want anyone cutting into her neck. Our Good Mother says, matter-of-factly, "You'll need a knife, alcohol, clean rags. I'll have it all delivered. You'll do it yourself, Death."

"No," Pressia says to Bradwell. "Tell her you won't do it."

Bradwell looks at his hands. He shakes his head. "The chip is in her neck. It's dangerous."

"You're a good butcher," Our Good Mother says.

"Actually, I'm not a butcher at all."

"You won't make a mistake."

"How can you be so sure?" Bradwell says.

"Because if you do, I'll kill you. It would be my pleasure."

This isn't comforting to Pressia. Bradwell looks even more nervous. He rubs the scars on his cheek.

"Go on," Our Good Mother says.

The woman with the broom-spear walks them to the door. Partridge looks a little loose in his knees, and Pressia isn't exactly steady herself. The woman opens the door, and before Pressia walks through it she looks back at Our Good Mother, who cradles one of her arms with the other arm, tilts her head, gazing at her left bicep. Pressia follows Our Good Mother's gaze, and there she sees the gauzy material of the shirt draw in and puff out-all that is left of her child, just an infant, the purpled lips, the dark mouth embedded in her upper arm, still alive, breathing.

PRESSIA.

FAIRY TALE.

THEY'RE ESCORTED TO A SMALL ROOM with two pallets on the floor. The woman locks the door behind them. Partridge slides down the wall to sit on his pallet. He holds the wounded hand to his chest.

Pressia can't sit down. Her head is ringing now. She has to have the chip removed by someone who isn't even a butcher? "I can't believe you think you're taking the chip out of my neck," she says to Bradwell. "You aren't. You know that, right? You're not even coming close."

"They know where you are at all times. Is that what you want? You love the Dome so much, I guess I shouldn't be surprised that you'd like to be their puppet."

"I'm not their puppet! You're paranoid. Crazy!"

"Crazy enough to come looking for you."

"I didn't ask you to do me any favors."

"Your grandfather did, though, and I've made good on that now."

Pressia feels like she's had the wind punched out of her. Is that why Bradwell came looking for her? Because he owed her grandfather a favor for stitching up his cheek? "Well, consider the debt paid off. I never asked to be anybody's burden."

"That's not what I meant," Bradwell says. "Let me start over."

"Quiet!" Partridge says. "Just shut up!" He's sitting there pale and shaken.

"I'm sorry about your finger," Pressia says.

"We've all made sacrifices," Bradwell says. "It was time he made one too."

"Nice," Pressia says. She hates Bradwell right now. He found her because he owed a favor. Nothing more. Why did he have to rub it in her face? "Really understanding."

"It's funny to see you in an OSR uniform," Bradwell says. "Look at those armbands. Are you an officer now? That's a really nice group of people. They are the ones who are really understanding!"

"I was abducted and they made me wear this uniform," Pressia says. "Do you think I like it?" Her voice is weak because she does like the uniform, and Bradwell probably knows it.

"Stop," Partridge says. "Bradwell's right, Pressia. They herded us to find each other. Who knows how long they've known where you are? The question is why you?"

Pressia sits down next to Partridge. "It makes no sense," she says. "I don't get it."

"One thing sticks with me from what Our Good Mother said." Bradwell crouches down and stares at Partridge. "You're holding something back. You're not being honest."

"What am I holding back?" Partridge says. "I've told you everything. I just had my finger cut off. Why don't you ease up?"

Pressia remembers the necklace. She checks her pockets and, in one of them, she feels the hard outline of the swan pendant, the edges of its wings. Did she have time to secure it before passing out? Did someone find it in her fist and put it in her pocket? She's relieved that she still has it. She fishes it out and holds it in her palm. "Did you two leave this for me? As a sign?"

Partridge nods. "You found it."

She recalls playing I Remember with Partridge, exchanging memories. She told him about the birthday pony, and he told her about a bedtime story, a bad king and a swan wife. A swan wife-like the swan pendant with its blue eye. Pressia looks at Bradwell. "Maybe it's not that he's holding back. It's just that he doesn't know what's important."

"And what is important?" Bradwell asks. "I'd love to know."

"What about the swan wife?" Pressia says to Partridge. "Tell me the story."

Partridge hasn't told the story of the swan wife aloud since that one time when he tried to tell it to his brother, Sedge, after the Detonations. Back then he could still remember his mother's laugh, but over time the air in the Dome was so empty, so vacant, that he felt like the smells and tastes and even memories were being eaten by a hollow pocket of air in his own head. Aribelle Cording Willux-all of the small traces of his mother were slowly disappearing. He knew it. Even only a week after the Detonations, he'd started to forget the sound of her voice. But now he's sure that if he could hear it, just one note of it, it would all come rushing back.

"The story goes like this." He starts to tell the story that he's been telling himself, alone, for years. "Before she was a swan wife, she was a swan maiden who saved a young man from drowning, and he stole her wings. He was a young prince. A bad prince. He forced her to marry him. He became a bad king.

"The king thought he was good, but he was wrong.

"There was a good king, too. He lived in another land. The swan wife doesn't yet know he exists.

"The bad king gave her two sons. One was like the father in that he was ambitious and strong. One was like her."

Partridge feels restless, and although he's weak, he has to get up and walk. He's barely aware of himself. He's touching things with his uninjured hand-the handle of a wheelbarrow, grooves and cracks in the cement-block walls. He stops and asks Pressia for the necklace. He holds it, just like his mother had told him to when she was telling him the story. He feels the sharp edges of the swan's wings. He goes on.

"The bad king put the swan wife's wings in a bucket down a dark old dry well, and the boy who was like the swan wife heard ruffling down that well. One night the boy climbed down the well and found the wings for his mother. She put them on, and she took the boy she could-the one like her who didn't resist her-and flew away."

But then he stops again. He feels light-headed.

"What is it?" Pressia asks.

"Keep going," Bradwell says. "Come on."

"He needs time," Pressia says, "to remember it."

But it's not that he's stuck. No. He remembers the story perfectly. The reason he stops is that he can almost feel his mother. The story released in the air also releases some part of her. He stops so that he can take it in and then it's gone. In these brief moments, he can remember what it was like to be a little boy. He remembers his boyish arms and his restless legs. He remembers the nubs of the blue blanket that they sat under at the beach house, the feeling of the swan pendant in his fist, like a big sharp tooth.

"The swan wife became a winged messenger. She took her one son with her to the land of a good king. She told him of the bad king's plan to take over the good king's land, that he would make fire roll down from the mountaintops to destroy everyone in its path. All of the good king's people would be destroyed in a ball of fire, and this new land-purified by fire-would belong to the bad king.

"The good king fell in love with the swan wife. He didn't force her to shed her wings. Here, she could be both maiden and swan. And because of this, she fell in love with him. He gave her a daughter-as beautiful as the swan wife, a gift.

"And he built a great lake to put out the fire as it rolls down the mountain. But because he was distracted by his love for her, the waters weren't ready when the fires came."

He starts to feel sick. His heart is kicking in his chest. He feels like he can't quite catch his breath, but he's trying to speak calmly. He knows that the story means something. Why hasn't he told them about the beach and the pills? He knows what it all means, doesn't he? His mother used to give them rhymed riddles so that they could have clues to where she'd hidden their birthday presents, hadn't she? His father had started the tradition while they were dating, while they were in love. The family liked riddles. What does this one mean?

"And so when the fire rolled down the mountain, the swan wife sought safety for her children. She carried her two children back to the bad king's land.

"She placed her daughter-whom no one knew-into the hands of a barren woman to raise.

"She returned her son to his crib-because he would always be treated like a prince.

"And then it was time for her to fly off to join the good king-because the bad king would kill her. But as she crawled away from her son, he reached for her and grabbed her feet with his hands, sooty from the fire. He would not let her go until she made a promise not to fly away. 'Burrow underground,' he begged her, 'so you can always be watching.'

"She agreed. She said, 'I'll make trails for you to find me. Many, many trails. All leading to me. You'll follow them when you're old enough.'

"She left her wings and crawled into the earth itself.

"And it was because of the boy's sooty hands that the swan has black feet."

His mother was a saint.

He likes this version of things.

His mother died a saint-except that now he knows she survived. He knew it by the way his father said, Your mother has always been problematic. He knew it by the way the old woman who was killed in the Death Spree said, He broke her heart. He knows it now.

The swan is not just a swan.

It's a sealed locket-my phoenix.

He says again, "She returns her son to his crib-because he will always be treated like a prince."

What were the little blue pills? Why did she force him to take them even when he was sure they only made him sicker? No more pills, he remembers crying. No, please. But she wouldn't stop. They had to take them every three hours. She would wake him up in the middle of the night. Why would she give him pills that would make him resistant? Did she want to save him? Did she know that, one day, he would have the chance to become a better version of himself-part of the superspecies-and did she want to render him useless? How did the pills make him resistant to changes in his behavioral coding? Why that and only that?

If she wasn't a saint, what was she?

A traitor?

He says again, "And that is why the swan wife has black feet," but this time it feels like a question.

Pressia isn't quite sure that she understands what she's heard. A fairy tale. That's all. Was she looking for more? No. It's meaningless.

Partridge looks at Bradwell. "You're thinking something about my mother."

"Aribelle Cording Willux," Bradwell says, as if he's a little amazed by the name itself.

"Just say it," Partridge shouts.

"Say what?" Bradwell says, and Pressia can tell that Partridge is right. Bradwell is the one holding back, as Our Good Mother would say. Not Partridge.

"You know something," Pressia says. "Are you going to lord it over us? Make us beg?"

Bradwell shakes his head. "The swan with black feet, it's a Japanese fairy tale. I was raised by a scholar of this kind of stuff. And that's not the way the old story goes. There is no second king. There is no third child-a beautiful daughter. There is no fire rolling down the mountain. And at the end, the swan is supposed to use her wings to fly away. Not underground."

"So?" Partridge says.

"So it's not just a little bedtime story. Your mother was giving you a coded message. You're supposed to figure it out."

Pressia feels tingling in the skin of the doll's head. She rubs it with her good hand to soothe the nerves. She wants to know what this story means, but she's afraid of it too. Why? She's not sure.

"I don't get it," Partridge says, but there's something about the story that Pressia feels deeply. The story is about separation and loss.

"But you do get it," Bradwell says flatly.

Pressia remembers what Partridge told her about the story. She says, "You thought your father was the bad king who stole her wings-you said so yourself." Her head feels heavy. Her heart is racing. That's not all of it. She can tell it's only the surface.

"I thought there was a reason she liked the story, on a personal level," Partridge says. "My parents didn't get along."

"And?" Bradwell says.

"You tell me," Partridge says. "You seem to have already figured it all out, as usual."

"She had two sons," Bradwell says quickly. "Then she took you to Japan as a baby, and she fell in love with the good king and had a baby. Who is the good king exactly? I don't know. But he was powerful. He had information."

Pressia glances at Partridge, whose body looks rigid-with fear or anger? Bradwell seems agitated, maybe even charged by all that he's heard. He looks at Pressia, then Partridge, and back again. She's supposed to know what's going through his mind. She doesn't. Why does he seem almost excited?

"Come on, Pressia," Bradwell says almost pleadingly. "You're not still just some little girl embarrassed by a doll. You already understand. You already know."

"A little girl? I thought I was a type or, better yet, just some debt you had to pay off." She touches the doll. "I don't need you to tell me who I am." But as she says it, she wonders if she still is a little girl in some ways. Just a few days ago, she was going to live her life in a cabinet in the back room of a barbershop. She was willing to retreat and live through clippings in magazines and dream of the Before and the Dome.

"You were never a type or a debt. Hear me out."

"Just stick to the story," Pressia says.