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Yes.

“Yes what?”

Yes, I am G.o.d.

“Oh,” Chelsea said. “Okay. Can I still call you Chauncey?”

Yes.

Chelsea picked up her doll and started drawing blue triangles.

“Chauncey, do you like Snickers or Twix better?”

The Orbital continued to answer questions.

The door to her room opened slowly, and Mommy peeked her head inside.

“Chelsea, baby, how are you feeling?”

“Okay,” Chelsea said. She picked up another doll and took off its clothes.

“Chelsea, what are you doing in here?”

“Just drawing triangles on my dolls and talking to Chauncey.”

“Ohhh,” Mommy said. “Your special friend Chauncey?”

“Uh-huh,” Chelsea said. She drew a blue triangle on this doll’s forehead. Very pretty.

“What are you talking to him about?”

“Oh, you know,” Chelsea said. “Flowers, and my pink dress, and what’s the best cartoons, and basketball and gravity and ice cream and G.o.d and dollies and—”

“Okay, honey,” Mommy said, cutting Chelsea off. Mommy was laughing a little. Chelsea didn’t know what was so funny.

“You keep talking to Chauncey,” Mommy said. “Are you drawing on all your dolls? Is that a permanent marker? Don’t ruin them, honey.”

“I’m not ruining them, Mommy,” Chelsea said. She picked up a blond Barbie with blue triangles on her arms, legs and face. She held it up so Mommy could see. “They’re not ruined. I’m making them better. I’m making them pretty.”

“Okay, honey,” Mommy said. “You come get me if you need anything, okay?”

“Okay, Mommy.”

Mommy closed the door. Chelsea set the Barbie on the right-hand pile, then grabbed another doll from the pile on the left.

TEEN ANGST

Margaret refused to cry.

She had a job to do. But looking at the flat-panel monitor, looking at that poor girl’s face . . .

“Let me go!” the girl screamed. She pulled weakly against her restraints, but she wasn’t going anywhere. Even if she got out of the restraints, she couldn’t escape the tiny containment chamber’s clear, reinforced walls.

Cameras mounted outside her chamber provided an excellent view. white epoxy walls blazed under the ceiling’s embedded neon lights. Leather cuffs held Betty Jewell’s wrists and ankles tight to the autopsy trolley. A disposable roll of thin foam on top of the cart gave it a little bit of padding, but it was still a steel cart and wasn’t designed with comfort in mind. She wore a blue hospital gown spotted with purple where her oozing sores leaked blood.

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