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by my knees.
    â€œHey,” I say to the admin as I dust off. “What’s with that last target? It didn’t pop up until we were past it!”
    The admin gently shrugs. “Yeah, well … it wasn’t actually a firing target.”
    Brando stands behind me and swacks car-floor crumbs off my jacket. He asks, “So we weren’t supposed to shoot it?”
    â€œYou were barely supposed to
see
it. We use it to record how you’d react to having missed one.”
    â€œHas anybody ever shot it before?”
    The admin slowly shakes his head. I hold my hand out behind me, and Brando slaps me a low-five.

06
    Two days later, Friday, January 23, 1981, 5:30 A.M. EST
    2906 Key Boulevard, Arlington, Virginia, USA
    â€œMom!” I holler. “Where’s my pants?”
    â€œWhich ones?” she yells from the laundry room downstairs.
    I stand up from my duffel bag so I can shout more easily. “The black ones with all the pockets!”
    â€œHang on, they’re coming out of the dryer!”
    Dammit, I’m gonna miss my flight.
    I shovel two fistfuls of socks and underwear out of my dresser and cram them into my bag. I use my Eyes-Up display to reread the packing checklist Brando commed me last night. Let’s see: waterproof outerwear, thermal shirts and pants, commando makeup, repair kit for my Mods, three dozen vials of neuroinjector drugs, Li’l Bertha, and—oh, right!
    Almost forgot my mission briefing.
ExOps requires its agents to keep track of their classified materials, naturally. I have to give my briefing files back to Cyrus or I won’t be cleared to leave the country.
    I hop over my duffel bag and snag my mission briefing folder from the floor next to my nightstand. I peek under my bed to see if I’ve forgotten anything else. It’s still pretty tidy down there. We only moved into this house two weeks ago, and I haven’t had time to subject my bedroom to my usual Bad Housekeeping routine.
    Cleo hustles in with my black pants draped over her arm and a small red felt pouch in her hand. “Here are your pants, honey. Do you have everything else?”
    â€œThanks. I think that’s everything.” I stuff the warm pants in my duffel.
    â€œHere.” Mom hands me the red felt pouch. “I got you something for your trip to wherever Cyrus is sending you this time.” Cleo could find out where I’m going, but she takes mission security as seriously as everyone else at ExOps, so she hasn’t looked. I won’t tell her unless I have to, but from all my cold weather gear and the ongoing political shitstorm with Germany, she probably knows it’s Western Europe somewhere.
    I open the little pouch. It’s … jewelry? I take out something metallic and cool. I open my hand. It’s my dad’s watch.
    â€œOh, Mom,” I whisper as tears spring into my eyes.
    Cleo smiles and reaches out to stroke my cheek. “I gave it to your father when we got married. It’s durable and easy to read, so I knew he’d like it. He used to tinker with it in his shop, and he wore it during some of his missions.” She takes a deep breath. “I want you to have it.”
    I can’t think of what to say, so I put it on. It’s a man’s Bulova with a black face and white numbers and arms. It dwarfs my wrist. There’s no way this watch will fit me. I hold my arm down, ready for it to fall off, but it bumps into my hand and stays there. I turn my wrist over and look at the strap.
    Mom says, “I had a smaller strap put on and new batteries installed.”
    I say, “How long have you been planning this?”
    â€œIt was with some of your father’s things at the house in Crystal City, and I brought it to a jeweler to get it sized for you. I’d actually forgotten about it. They called a few days ago to remind me to pick it up.”
    I study the watch and imagine Dad wearing it on his