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Unfortunately, from my initial search of the house, I’d picked a place that had no female residents. I’d have to get creative with my wardrobe before I left here. For now I’d gather the items I’d need.
    A cordless phone caught my eye. Thank God not everyone had converted to solely using cell phones.
    Snatching it up, I dialed a number I knew by heart. It rang once, twice . . . The line clicked as someone picked up the phone, and then I heard my father’s tired voice.
    “Hello?”
    I covered my mouth with my palm, a choked cry bubbling up. Hearing his voice after what felt like an eternity—after what essentially was an eternity—overwhelmed me.
    “Hello?” my father repeated, his voice irritated.
    I dropped my hand. “Dad,” I whispered, my voice breaking.
    I heard him suck in a breath. “Ember?” Hope and incredulity tinged his voice. “Ember Bug?”
    “Yes,” I sobbed out.
    “Oh my God, Ember. It’s so damn good to hear your voice.” My father, my assertive, even-tempered father, began to weep. My father never cried. Never ever. The sound of his pain almost undid me. “Bug,” he said, “I love you. I love you. I never told you that as much as I should’ve.”
    I rubbed my eyes as tears slipped out. “Dad, I love you too. I love you and Mom so much.”
    “Ember, where are you? What’s going on? Do you need someone to pick you up? You give me the word, and—”
    Right then I made the decision to confide in him. It was unbelievably selfish of me, putting my parents in danger by passing along this information. Last year I’d made a decision to not get them involved. However, between then and now I’d gotten spliced. It was time to admit that this was way bigger than me. I needed whatever help I could get, and my parents deserved an explanation—they’d want one, even if it put them at risk.
    “Dad, I can’t talk long,” I said, “and I don’t know when I’ll see you next. There are some things I need to tell you.”
    As I spoke to him, I began moving around the house, gathering the items I’d need.
    He took a deep breath, cleared his throat. “I’m listening,” he said, reining in his emotions. This was what I loved about him. He knew how to handle crises better than the average parent.
    “Get a pen and a paper.” I moved to the pantry and grabbed several bottles of water and some protein bars, setting them on the counter.
    “Ready.”
    “Write this down: I’m a part of the Prometheus Project. It was a government project that publicly went by the name the Generation Project.”
    I paused to let my father catch up, and then I continued. “The Project genetically engineered a group of humans with the ability to . . . teleport. Now they’re using them— us —as spies. And a lot of us are dying.”
    Again I paused, but the silence on his end of the line stretched on and on.
    Finally he spoke. “Dying?” he echoed. Another long pause followed this, and I got the impression my father was using it to collect himself. “I’d suspected there was something more to you and to them,” he whispered. “I’d suspected, and I let them take you anyway.” I could practically see my father’s hand scraping over the whiskers on his chin, and then I heard his soft sobs.
    “Dad, it’s okay.” I mean, it wasn’t, none of this was, but I understood that people dealt with situations in the best way they knew how, and my parents weren’t the only ones who’d made mistakes. The last hour of my life was a testament to that.
    “It’s not, but I won’t waste your time trying to make myself feel better when you’ve got to go. So you got anything else for me?” he asked.
    I swallowed. An old thought took shape: Can’t tell parents. They could be tracked down and killed. I’d tried to shield them. Now, ignorant of that memory, I’d placed my father in danger.
    No way to undo what’s already been done. I could only move forward.
    “Thanks, Dad, and I do,” I responded, my grip