"Hey," Aimee said. "Wanna help me make life-altering decisions that will affect every aspect of my daughter's existence?"

"Good lord. That sounds... dangerous."

"I know you're feeling overwhelmed with everything that's going on—"

"I would love to help, Aim. What can I do?"

"My birthing specialist keeps reminding me to finish the genetic checklist. I worked on the first few categories last week, but I've been putting off the rest. It's daunting... but they need it before my third trimester."

"Genetic checklist?"

"Personality traits for the baby. None of my decisions are guaranteed to change her behavior, but—as the birth specialists say—we can 'guide her inclinations.'"

"Fun! Where did you stop?"

"Friendship."

"I think we can handle that."

"First question: Introversion or extroversion?"

"Uhg. Both extremes are obnoxious. Can you say, 'in between?'"

"We can leave it blank and let fate decide, but they want me to check as many as possible."

"I don't want to tell you what to do..."

"But you would leave it open?"

"Definitely."

"I agree. Next: patience or spontaneity?"

"Spontaneity is more interesting... but I feel like patience is a more valuable life skill."

"I think you're right. We'll go with patience. Next: modesty or individualism?"

"Fuck modesty!"

"Agreed. Individuality it is. Oh, you'll like the next category."

"What is it?"

"Creativity."

"Oh boy."

"Artistry or stability?"

"Don't... don't make your daughter an artist. Go with stability."

"I could leave it open."

"Stability."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Done. Imagination or logic?"

"Who made this list? People can have both!"

"Leave it to fate?"

"Definitely. What a horrible question."

"Hands-on or cerebral?"

"Mmm... what do you think?"

"I'm more hands-on... and I lived with 'cerebral' for a long time..."

"Hands-on, then?"

"You're good at this."

"You just need somebody to bounce ideas off."

"Next category is looove."

"You may want a different sounding board for this one..."

"First question: passion or self-control?"

"Hmm..."

"Passion seems like the obvious choice, but self-control is..."

"...important for survival?"

"Definitely. I think everyone could use a little more self-control."

"I agree."

"Physical or spiritual?"

"Geez. Spiritual is such a vague word..."

"But I feel like physical implies superficiality."

"True. And, vague or not, 'spiritual' is definitely more interesting."

"Absolutely. Next up..."

"...Aim?"

"Yeah, sorry."

"What's next?"

"Monogamous or independent."

"Jesus..."

"Should I leave it blank?"

"I can't tell you what to do on this one."

"Please?"

"I won't give you an answer, but I'll talk it through."

"Deal."

"Were you happier with Sam, or were you happier after the divorce?"

"I can't even imagine my life before the divorce..."

"Because the memories are bad?"

"No."

"Do you regret your devotion?"

"I don't know..."

"Imagine Sam stayed with you. Would you want him to help raise your daughter? If so, would you continue to devote yourself to him? Or would you long for your independence?"

"Mi amour..."

"You don't have to answer if—"

"I miss him, Hannah. After eleven years, I miss him like crazy. Of course I would want him to raise our child. If he would have gotten The Vaccine too... I would have happily devoted the rest of my life to my husband."

"If that's true, then I think you have your answer."

"Monogamy it is. I don't know what I'd do without you..."

"You've been without me for decades atractiva, and you did just fine."

"You and Joe... do you have to go back tomorrow?"

"We haven't talked about it. I had a minor meltdown at the hospital and we haven't spoken since. I promise we'll be out of your hair in a day or two—"

"Stay." Aimee tried not to glance at Joseph peeking from behind the kitchen wall.

"Stay?"

"Please stay. Unless the couch is uncomfortable or Joe needs to go—"

"Dad doesn't need to go anywhere. And the couch has been fine. We just don't want to impose—"

"Stay until the birth. You can keep me company until you figure out your plans."

"You're sure?"

"I'm positive."

As Hannah glanced away to consider the offer, Aimee glanced at Joseph and winked. He smiled and gave her a thumbs up.

"We'd love to stay," Hannah said. "I'll tell Joe in the morning."

"Perfect!" Aimee stood. "I'll let you get some sleep, chica. I know it's been a rough day."

"Hey Aimee?"

"Yeah?"

"Is it finalized? The checklist?"

"It won't be finalized until they stick the needle in me. Why?"

"Go with passion instead of self-control."

"You don't think control is more important for survival?"

"I do..."

"But?"

"I'm not in a place in life where I can adequately defend passion... but I do know I had it once. I know I miss it... and I know your daughter deserves every drop she can get."

* * *

September.

The pending birth gave Hannah a reason to wake up on time, to flush the color from her hair, and to apologize to her father for her adolescent behavior. "I was a bitch at the hospital," she said while eating breakfast.

"You need to stop calling yourself names."

"I was acting like a child. I'm sorry."

He pecked her on top of her head. "It's been a rough few years, princess."

"It might take a few decades, but we'll solve each other's problems. We'll help Aimee until the birth, then we'll go back to Masdar and figure out our lives."

He nodded.

"I'm glad you're still here, Dad."

"Me too, princess."

Hannah meant what she said, but she had no idea how to "figure out their lives."

Suddenly, like a jeering answer to a prayer she never prayed, she received an old-school text message from Jon.

"Remember me?"

Torn and aflutter, Hannah replied with the only message that made sense.

: )

* * *

October.

Aimee's belly grew and grew and when the baby kicked, Joseph would ask permission to touch. She would let him, and he would smile.

By the end of the month, it was time to move to her new home. Hannah tried to explain her economical four-box system, but a large portion of Aimee's life still existed in the physical realm; bookshelves filled with trinkets, boxes of heirlooms, a wedding dress wrapped in plastic.

Aimee helped from the living room chair, pointing to boxes and barking orders until the house was bare.

The trio collapsed on the floor and shared a printed pizza. When Hannah excused herself to the bathroom, Joseph turned to Aimee. "Still no takers on the house?"

She rolled her head against the wall. "I used to be good at these things, Joe. Twenty years ago, this house would have been on the market the day I decided to sell."

"Nobody should have to sell their house, host visitors, and move their entire life while pregnant."

She bit the pizza and talked with a full mouth. "I was trying to avoid realtor fees by listing it myself, but I think I'm about to cave. If I don't sell it by—"

"I'll buy it."

She stopped chewing.

"You've been good to us. You let us stay at my behest."

"I wanted you here—"

"Whatever happens in the next few months, Hannah will need a place to recuperate."

Aimee finished her bite and gulped.

"I'm going to double your asking price."

"Joe—"

"You can't stay in those dormitories forever. When your daughter graduates and LE kicks you out, I want you to have a safety net."

"I can't take your—"

"I have more money than I can spend in ten infinite lifetimes. And besides, I have a favor to ask."

"Anything."

Joseph lowered his voice. "Keep an eye on my girl."

She nodded, slowly at first, then more and more vigorously as her smile rose and set the room ablaze. "Por supuesto!" she cried. "Por supuesto!"

* * *

November.

Masdar Gardens spoiled us. Hannah came to the realization after their first week without Aimee in the house with the purple door. The concrete foundation, steel joists, and plastic siding meant the structure required regular upkeep. The solar panels were so old they were only operating at 65% efficiency. When Hannah or Joe wanted clean clothes, they had to manually insert the garments and soap into the box on the wall. Food was a bigger problem. Soylant wasn't piped into the home, but had to be ordered. And instead of an effortless Personal Rapid Transit system, Hannah had to buy her own car and ride it on Chicago's crumbling infrastructure.

Jon's texts eased the transition. He initiated conversations about once a week. They were relatively benign—stories from the past, questions about the present—and neither Jon nor Hannah addressed the archaic form of communication.

In the last week of November, Jon's text was more provocative than benign. "Tell me, Strawberry, are there any men (or women?) in your life?"

Hannah bit her lip to tame her grin. She thought of a million witty replies that might have plunged them into their old rapport, but she reminded herself of Jon's other half, suppressed her imagination, and typed a semi-cordial response. "Nothing serious. Any men (or women) in yours?"

"Both, actually." A photo was attached to the text. From June, 2041, the picture showed Jon standing between his wife and son against a brick building. The adults held regal poses and stoic expressions like a pair of Greek gods, Jon with his fist on his chin, Storm with a stretched neck and inflated bosom. Between them, Michael bared his muscles like The Incredible Hulk while trying his damnedest to look angry. "Michael's 18th," said Jon. "He just got T4."

"Storm is breathtaking," she replied. "And Michael has your boyish charm."

Hannah's message was the last of their weekly conversation. But that evening, while she and Joseph sat on a brand-new sofa watching their respective shows, she remembered the exchange and accidentally laughed out loud.

"What's so funny?" Joseph asked. His eyes reappeared as the movie vanished from his lenses.

"Sorry. I was thinking about a friend."

"You have a friend?" His mouth gaped in exaggerated shock.

She knew Joseph didn't have the emotion-detector upgrade... but she wouldn't lie. The truth—this truth—made her warm inside. "It's Jon," she said.

His brow fell into a crinkly scowl. "Jon Jon?"

"Yes, Dad. Jon Jon."

He smirked. He shook his head. Still smiling, he disappeared back into his show. "I just like hearing you laugh."

* * *

December 21.

Aimee held the pills in her hand. Twelve more minutes, then I can take them.

"It's the calm before the storm, little one," she cooed to the bebé in her belly. "La calma que precede a la tormenta."

The birthing specialists told her the risks of live birth. They explained that the fetus could become tangled, trapped in her tubes, suffocated; that she could miscarry in a thousand different ways and there would be little they could do to help. But Aimee wasn't worried. She gladly signed the waiver. The other moms called her "ethically irresponsible." She called them "squeamish cyborg coños."

The elevator doors opened into the birthing unit on 101. A round corridor circled a centralized glass incubation room. Couches lined the outside ring so the other families could visit their unborn children, but Aimee never stayed long enough to sit.

Behind the glass cylinder, twenty-four computerized pedestals stood in a row like a battalion of robotic soldiers. Each pedestal sported a set of nimble arms holding glass pods. Twenty-three of the pods housed full-grown human fetuses.

A holographic sleigh and a dozen reindeer soared above Aimee's head. "Ho ho ho!" shouted Santa, his voice tapering as the decoration disappeared around the curve.

It only took a single human technician to monitor the twenty-three eggs, and Aimee was pretty sure he was only there for appearances. (No reasonable mother wanted a computer to care for their babies.)

"These are your classmates," she whispered to her belly. "They have mommies too, but you're the only one inside her mommy. Porque eres especial."

Aimee pressed her forehead against the glass. The nearest fetus floated peacefully in crystal-clear sludge, its umbilical cord attached to its bellybutton as an organic, fleshy tube. Halfway between the fetus and the computer, the cord transformed into a wire.

Although all twenty-four babies were conceived in the same week in March, the fetuses in the tanks still had three more months of incubation. "You'll be older than all of your friends," she whispered.

The best part about having an early birth was the lack of protesters in the lobby. Every spring for the last three years, Living Enterprises made headlines as mortie zealots arrived in droves to protest the newest cycle of births. And—if the foreign LE branches were any indication—the protests would grow even larger once the cycles began graduating the same month.

The alarm in her lenses told her it was time to induce labor. Aimee placed the pills on her tongue, sipped a glass of nutrients, and swallowed them down.

* * *

Hannah burst into Joseph's bedroom like a whirlwind in a lavender blouse, lavender tights, and a grey skirt that matched her eyes. "We gotta go!"

"Is the family ready?" he asked.

"Most of them left. Sophia and her mom are waiting in your car." She took one look at his clothes and rolled her eyes. "You don't have to wear a suit and tie to a birth, Joe. Actually, you never have to wear a suit and tie."

"It's an important event. I'd like to look nice."

A text from Jon popped in her vision. "Zokusuke Banquet Hall. 6:00."

She blinked away the message and headed for the door.

"Do I match?" Joseph asked, holding out his arms for her inspection.

Her shoulders slouched. She looked him up and down, then shrugged. "Does it matter?"

"It matters to me."

"Yeah, Dad. You match. Now let's go."

* * *

"Zokusuke Banquet Hall. 6:00."

Hannah studied Jonathon's message a dozen times in the three-minute flight to the LE tower. It was 6:02. Shit.

"The car is like a parlor!" Mrs. Cardella exclaimed."

Joseph swiveled to face the ladies. "Apparently your daughter is an important person, Cicely. She got us approved for roof parking!"

The woman nodded excitedly. "We're so proud!" She returned her forehead to its print on the window and marveled at the buildings so close she could see the people inside.

The car parked itself in a terminal marked "Guest." Hannah leapt out, opened the door for Sophia, and said, "Make sure Joe and Cicely get to your sis?"

"The Resident Surgical Center," Sophia confirmed. "Got it."

"I'll meet you in ten." Hannah crossed the lot with quick, controlled steps. She hopped in the elevator, selected floor 111, brushed off her skirt, checked the time again (6:06), and inhaled slowly in a miserable attempt to relax.

I need to know what he's thinking, she realized, prompting another rush of panic. She opened the menu in her contacts and downloaded the update for the emotion detector. Just as the elevator came to rest, the app completed its installation.

The doors opened into the dim opulence of a deserted banquet hall. Hannah stepped cautiously onto the carpet as if her foot might get tangled in the ornate pattern. The only source of light came from the shaded windows which spanned the entire length of the left wall. Twenty feet above her head, a bus-sized chandelier served as the shadowy centerpiece to the empty room.

As the elevator closed quietly behind Hannah, she wondered if she had missed Jon. Aimee would already be in stirrups and—

Her eyes adjusted to the dark and she saw him, a rouge silhouette against the far windows, hands in his pockets, daydreaming in a soft-green aura. Every inch of Hannah's body wanted to run to him; to worm her arms beneath his clothes, crawl inside his shirt, and die.

She was halfway across the chamber when he noticed her too. His aura shifted blue.

They met in the middle. His ensemble was simple and without frills; a cotton tee, a blazer, and jeans. They hugged. She smelled traces of menthol from his morning shave.

"Interesting place to meet," she said.

"I've been wandering a lot lately. I found this place a few months ago."

"Mmm." She glanced around the hollow chamber. "It's a big day."

"I'm so happy for Aimee."

"Me too. She's waited so long!"

"Thirty years?"

"Thirty-six since she got married..."

Silence.

Jon grinned. "This is awkward, isn't it?"

"You feel it too?"

"I had so many things to say, but now that you're standing here it all seems..."

"Inadequate? Inappropriate?"

"Maybe both?"

She chewed her lower lip, then caught herself and stopped. "I have an idea."

"Yeah?"

"We'll catch up like socially-responsible adults. We'll ask each other all the clichés, then respond with whatever gets us in the least amount of trouble. That way I can pretend like I'm maturing, and your lenses can tell you how I really feel."

Jon's lips pulled into that adorable smirk. "How's life been treatin' ya?"

"Life's been great." Hannah grinned with all the sincerity she could muster. "The West Coast has been a blast, but I'm glad to be back. I hear you're married now?"

Jon exhaled slowly without breaking eye contact. "I am. Storm is a great woman and a loving wife." ["Trustworthy,"] said the detector.

Hannah flinched but maintained her grin. "That's great."

"We had a few rough patches, but things have been pretty solid lately." ["Trustworthy,"] said the detector.

"And you have a son?"

"Michael. Somehow, that kid manages to be a pain in the ass and the greatest thing that's ever happened to me." ["Trustworthy,"] said the detector. "What about you? Have you found true love?"

Hannah suddenly regretted this game. "I did," she said. "Twice actually. They were both good guys, but... we ended things amicably."

Jon nodded. "How's Joe?"

"Never been better."

"And your art?"

"Sales are through the roof!"

"Do you still think about 'us'?"

"It's been three decades, Jon. I moved on years ago."

Jon's eyes seemed to tremor between hers, struggling to see past the pulsating "lie lie lie" and into her true intentions. "Do you still love me?" he asked.

Hannah flinched again as pain blossomed behind her eyes. "No," she said and barely maintained the facade.

Jon—unequipped to handle her signature brand of melancholia—looked to his feet and said, "I'm sorry." ["Trustworthy,"] said the detector.

Her knees buckled. Her eyes swelled. "Jesus," she muttered. "We have an hour until the baby's here." She turned toward the elevator—

"Hannah."

"Yeah..."

"Turn around."

"We really need to—"

"Turn around and look at me."

She turned. They locked eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said again. ["Trustworthy,"] said the detector.

She smiled. It was a disheartened smile, but it was real. "I know, Jon."

"Storm is a good person." ["Trustworthy."]

"I know."

"I've moved on." ["Possible dishonesty."]

Her brow quivered. "I... I know."

"I'm happy with my marriage." ["Possible dishonesty."]

"Of course."

"Storm and I have three years left in our commitment, and when it's over, we're going to renew our vows." ["Lie."]

Her lungs convulsed in a series of rapid breaths.

"I don't love you, Hannah." ["Lie."] "I don't need you." ["Lie."] "And in the future, I don't see us being anything more than friends." ["Lie. Lie. Lie."] "Do you understand?"

She nodded. Her heart swelled against her chest and she nodded again. "It's almost time."

They returned to the elevator in silence. When the door opened, Hannah spoke. "If you ever change your mind about the renewal..." She took his hand, squeezed it, and let go. "I'll be here."

And that was the truth.