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of questioning. “Mother’s name?”
    I think of my mother. Of
what she did. Of how she didn’t even defend me: her daughter. Her only child.
    “Evandra Reeves.” I’m
unable to keep the sharp edge out of my voice.
    “Father’s name and date of
death?”
    I stare at him, both
confused and alarmed as to why he’s asking me this. I swallow, trying hard not
to make it obvious that the question has upset me. “Freston Reeves,” I stammer.
“September 9 . . . 2047.”
    “Address?” Dr. Richter
continues without pause.
    “A19, Unit 34, Zone 2.”
    “And what business did you
have at W. P. Headquarters?”
    Now I feel annoyed. He
knows the answer, so why ask? What’s with all the formalities? What exactly does he want with me? Gritting my teeth, I decide I have no choice except to
humor him for the time being.
    “I was sitting my placement
exam,” I grumble.
    He immediately glances up
and meets my gaze, looking significantly more interested than he did a moment
ago.
    “What sector were you
projected to enter?” he asks. There’s a genuine curiosity in his voice.
    “Financial. The banking
branch,” I answer flatly.
    He smiles, but there’s
something about this new expression that’s even more unsettling than the forced
grin twisting his lips.
    “You must be very
intelligent to have been designated to that particular career,” he croons.
“Financial often leads to a very stable and fulfilling life.”
    His eerie tone causes a
shudder to run up my spine. A wave of relief washes over me when he looks back
down at the table. A few moments pass in silence until we reach the very topic
I’ve been hoping to avoid.
    “Could you please explain
what happened during the exam?”
    His eyes fix on mine, and I
find myself debating about whether or not I should tell him the truth. Biting
my lip, I try time and again to swallow the lump blocking my throat. Should I
tell him? What will happen if I do? But then again . . . what will happen if I
don’t? Besides, I want to know what happened to me just as much as he does. If
I tell him, maybe I’ll finally get that answer.
    “I don’t know,” I whisper,
my voice just audible. “One minute, I was fine. The next I had a splitting
headache, my vision was blurring, and . . .” I hesitate.
    “And?” he presses.
    “And then . . . it was like
I was someplace else. I was seeing things that weren’t physically there ,
even though it felt like they were. Then I was back in the exam room.”
    I look up at Dr. Richter.
His eyebrows are scrunched together as he seems to mull over my words.
    “What did you see?” he
asks.
    All of a sudden, I’m not
sure that I made the right decision. I think back on what I saw. I remember how
terrifying it was. How real . But it couldn’t have been real. It was
nothing more than a bizarre side effect of an ill-timed panic attack. Was that
really worth getting myself into more trouble over?
    But real or not, it’s too
late to back out now. They already have me.
    It’s too late.
    “Destruction,” I breathe.
    I notice his eyes widen
before he clears his throat and adjusts his glasses. He nods his head but
doesn’t speak. I’m not sure whether I should be alarmed by his silence, but I
can’t find the nerve to say anything more to him.
    An awkward hush fills the
room, and I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Goosebumps
prickle my skin, and I realize that the suspense hanging between us is even
worse than my fear.
    I’m about to speak up—to
say anything to break the silence—when he begins to drum on the tablet. His
fingers swipe at the screen, and in one swift movement, he turns it toward me.
    “I’d like you to examine
the following documents,” he says. “Let me know if anything from this
information seems familiar to you.”
    I stare down at the tablet,
feeling weirdly on edge about what he’s asking me to do. My fingers tremble as
they hover above the screen. I look back up at him uncertainly, but he