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leaving. "
    She turns and stomps away. I watch her walk back to the house.
    "What's Her High and Mightiness in a snit about now?" Miesha asks.
    I look at Miesha. Could it be true? We are nothing more than floor models? Trotted out on stage periodically to be shown off to potential customers of Gatsbro Technologies? Illegal lifelines for those who don't want to die?
    "Locke?"
    Exceptional . I'm four inches taller now than I was before. More muscular. No cowlicks. My teeth several shades whiter--and straighter. Green flecks in my eyes. Were they ever really there? I had assumed the differences were by accident, but Dr. Gatsbro leaves nothing to chance.
    Miesha walks over to me and puts her hand on my shoulder. "I don't know what she said to you, but I want to warn you right now, Locke, she's trouble."
    I try to focus on what she's saying. Does Miesha know? But that doesn't mean I always like what I see .
    "Locke, listen to me. I've tried to treat you both the same, but something isn't right with her. She didn't come through this like you did. Are you listening to me? Something's not right with her."
    I stare at Miesha, her words reaching me, it seems, seconds after her mouth has stopped moving. I grab both of her arms. "Of course something isn't right! She's been trapped in a box for over two hundred years, Miesha!" My hands thrash, Miesha's head bobs. "Our families are gone! Every person on the planet we ever knew is gone! And now we learn that the only reason we're even here is to help sell Gatsbro Technology! We're not people--we're floor models! You're right, Miesha! Something is very not right!"
    "Locke, you're hurting me."
    I look at my hands squeezing her arms. I am stronger than I ever remember being before. I pull my hands away and see the red marks I've left. I turn and run back to the house.
    I hear Miesha calling after me, but I don't stop.

Chapter 11

    I lie on my bed looking at the ceiling. I don't know how much time has passed. Did I lapse? I don't even remember running to my room, but my breaths are still coming short and fast.
    Is Kara really leaving? She can't. Dr. Gatsbro won't allow it. My fingers dig into my scalp. I try to push my thoughts into some kind of order that makes sense. Was that his plan all along? To keep us hidden here while he invited wealthy customers out to view his exceptional creations?
    I sit up. Is that all we are? Creations? It's the question that's been simmering under the surface ever since I woke, the one I push away again and again. But my mind is my own . Dr. Gatsbro may have provided us with bodies--maybe he even owns them--but he didn't create my mind. He can never own that. My mind is my own, even if nothing else is.
    What did he plan to do? Charge to store minds in the event his wealthy clients met with a sudden accident? And then they'd drop in for periodic mind updates like they were going to a freaking spa? Was this their insurance against mortality? And then the ultimate payoff--new and improved bodies?
    That's why we have no end date. He plans to keep us for a long time.
    I race through the last several months, trying to look for more clues. How did I miss them? But he was good to us. He gave us anything we wanted. The best of everything. He delivered us from our hellhole. Maybe Kara is wrong. Maybe she's leading me down a dangerous path of reasoning. Maybe it's not how she thinks it is at all. Maybe we're both wrong . Think, Locke. Don't overreact. Don't be impulsive .
    We need to talk this out. I have to find Kara before it's too late. I spring off my bed and hurry down the hall.
    "Kara?" I whisper through her door, knocking softly. I don't want to attract Hari or Miesha or, worse, Dr. Gatsbro. There is no answer. I try the door, and it opens. "Kara," I call, this time louder. I do a quick search of her room. She's gone.
    I leave her door open and step softly down the hallway, looking in empty rooms. Antiques. Odd collections. No Kara. The house is quiet, not even the