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mind-crushing grief while striving to convince Dr. Swan that I was capable of taking care of myself. He finally relented, on the condition that I meet with him regularly and keep him updated on my life. Not difficult, since he’s the one supervising my training. He hired a housekeeper as well, to come in three times a week. More than once, I’vecaught Greta snooping around in my bedroom. I suspect she keeps tabs on me and reports back to Dr. Swan, reassuring him that my drawers aren’t filled with bloodstained razors and illegal drugs.
    I know he’s only concerned about me, trying to be a responsible guardian. But his constant meddling in my life sometimes makes me feel like I’m suffocating.
    I’ll be eighteen soon. Of course, I’ll be in training for a while yet, so I’ll still have to answer to him. But when I become an adult, the house will be mine, and I’ll have at least one place where I can hide from his prying eyes.
    It’s five o’clock in the afternoon. I sit on my living room couch eating my dinner—a reheated meal from a container, scientifically engineered for optimal nutrition and nearly as bland as the box it came in.
    The house is too empty, too silent. I turn on the TV.
    On the hovering screen, a woman sits in a hospital bed, gazing lovingly at the newborn in her arms, while a piano plays softly in the background. “A parent already has so many things to worry about,” says a female narrator, her voice gentle and soothing. “We all want to give our children the best possible future. So why gamble with something as precious as your child’s DNA? NewVitro is safe, proven, and guaranteed—”
    I change the channel. There’s a war documentary. Somber music drones as the camera pans over grainy shots of rubble and weeping people. I quickly flip to another station.
    After finishing my dinner, I head upstairs to my bedroom and sprawl across my bed, stomach-down. The lights are off. Rows of stuffed animals watch me from the shelves, their eyes reflecting the faint glow of moonlight from the window.There’s a teddy bear with an eye patch and a sword, a smiling pink bunny with sharp teeth, and a little green Cthulhu, among others. Nutter, my squirrel, sits on my pillow.
    My gaze wanders to a framed picture on the nightstand. Behind the glass, Father beams, brown hair wind-tousled, arms wrapped around me. I’m only three or four, my hair in pigtails, my mouth open in a wide, laughing smile. Above us, the sky shines a brilliant, cloudless blue. I try to remember what it was like to be that happy, that safe.
    â€œChloe,” I say.
    A black cat materializes at the foot of the bed, close to my face. Her tail sways, and her luminous green eyes blink. “Hello, Lain,” says a childlike voice. She stretches—a long, full-body stretch ending with a flick of her tail.
    She’s only a hologram, of course. A computer avatar. But the sight of her always makes me smile. “Hello.”
    She scratches behind one ear and yawns. “So, what are you looking for today?”
    â€œI need you to access IFEN’s database for me.”
    Her eyes glow brighter. “This site requires a password and voice identification.”
    â€œLain Fisher,” I say. “The password is ‘atonement.’?”
    She grooms one paw. Then she blinks, tilting her head back, and two thin beams of light shine from her eyes, projecting a holographic screen into the air about two feet above her head. I touch a small square in the bottom left corner of the screen, which lights up as the computer scans my fingerprint.
    Text fills the screen, letters glowing white against a dark background.
    IFEN’s database is filled with information on millions ofpeople across the country. Of course, the database is locked to the general public, but as a Mindwalker, I have access to some of the records. Anyone who’s had his brain scanned or been