"Did we ever go up in a hot air balloon when I was little?" Scarlett asked.

"Are you making fun of me?" her mother snapped.

"No!" Scarlett protested. "Did we?"

The sky so ridiculously blue.

"Of course not," her mother said. "I am not, you may have noticed, made of money."

"Okay, it was just a question. I thought we had." Something triggered a bunch of black birds to abandon a tree.

"You remember me, though?" her mother asked. "And stuff from before?"

"A pink flamingo in the yard." The side mirror said the birds were closer than they appeared.

"But nothing . . . bad?" Her mother checked her mirrors.

The van was gone. The birds, too.

"Not that I can think of."

"Well, that's good, then."

Scarlett didn't have the energy to even think what that might mean.

The MRI, at least, she was eager for.

This way they'd know there was no implant, no chip.

She would not, one day, be awakened by an alien device implanted in her heart.

She would not set about some evil scheme, maybe even involving killing the whole human race, including her own damaged mother.

She could prove it.

To her mother, and maybe just a little bit to herself.

This was how.

One little test at this totally ordinary-looking office-type building.

Easy as: Following the nurse down a long hallway.

Changing into a pink surgical gown.

Lying very, very still as the machine whirred to life.

Listening to its sounds.

Looking for a tune.

Finding none.

When the humming stopped, Scarlett couldn't be sure how long she'd been in there, but it didn't matter.

It was over.

The doctor would speak with them shortly.

Scarlett returned to her mother, and then it seemed they were waiting a very long time and Scarlett decided to talk to try to pa.s.s the time.

"So," she said, "what have you been doing?"

Her mother pffed and looked at her funny. "For eleven years, you mean?"

"Yeah, I guess. What's your life like? Do you have a boyfriend? Hobbies? Do you travel? What?"

"Oh, sure, me and Hans go to the French Riviera every week."

Scarlett looked at her.

And blinked.

And waited.

"I've got a guy, yeah. Steve. Been together going on six years now."

Six was a lot.

Not as many as eleven but still . . .

"You don't live together?"

"No way, no how." Punctuated with four head shakes. "Had one of those. Had one move in and it turned out he was flat broke. Never making that mistake again. No, Steve's successful-like. He's a good guy. You'll meet him. He wants to take us out to dinner tonight."

Scarlett's gut contracted, released.

Contracted, released.

Like doing some ab workout without her permission.

"Tonight?"

"Well, he's dying to meet you. And, well, you know. He's been there for me. He's really been my rock these past few years. Him and the folks in the abduction group. And anyway, you got any better plans?"

As a matter of fact . . .

Abduction group?

How many hours until 8:00 p.m.?

How many hours until him?

"I'm just not sure we should go out to a restaurant right now. You know?"

"Oh, Steve knows a place. He knows the owner and they'll look after us, make sure the cameras stay away. And we'll go early. It's nice. On the water. A proper welcome-home dinner." Her mother nodded. "He's got some real good ideas for us, too."

"Ideas?"

"He can explain it better."

The nurse finally came to get them and led them to a room, where they waited a minute more.

Then a doctor came in.

The older detective from that morning was with him.

"What's going on?" her mother asked.

"Well," the doctor said, "there's something inside Scarlett. So I called Detective Chambers."

He clipped a film to a light board and switched it on.

Scarlett's insides-rib cage, esophagus, all-lit up in black and gray.

Brightest of all was a thumbnail-sized white oval in her gut.

She thought she might throw up.

Wanted to, even.

"I can't even . . .," her mother said slowly.

Scarlett stepped closer to the film.

Mesmerized by that glowing, misshapen moon.

The shine of it hurt her eyes.

Up.

Up.

Up.

Feet floating.

She turned to the detective when she said "What is it?"

Lucas