very room. An unexpected premature birth, a day a

doctor's anesthesia, the scalpel deftly cut open

wo babies. Twin boys, both i

xpression was a mask of professional pity. "I'm so sorry," she said, her voice gentle bu

ds. She reached out a weak hand, wanting to see him, to hold him just once.

a profound, hollow stillness. Beside her bed was a small, clear incubator.

son.

ut the fierce, overwhelming love for the tiny life that had survived was a powerful anchor. She

years

klyn apartment. Seven-year-old Mase stood on a small step stool, expertly flipping

t of her son, so small and yet so capable, sent a familiar pang of warmth

his face breaking into a radiant, angelic

is tiny frame, burying her face in his soft, dark hair. He smel

simply, his voice muf

the financial news on the small television perched on the counte

r's, holding a flicker of something she couldn't qu

The name was a phantom limb, an ache she felt on cold nig

tention to his eggs. But the brief, intense

heerful sounds of cartoons on the television abruptly cut off. He walked over to his small desk, wher

a powerhouse of cus

lines of green and black code. He wasn't playing a game. He was syste

ad been making Jenna's life at her previous

, his movements precise and economical. He found what he was looking for in a h

, and, using a series of anonymous relays that bounced his sign

resence. The entire operation took less than fifteen minutes. He clos

to draw. The picture was of him and his mother, holding h

bleach, she found her son sitting on the floor, quietly colorin

he said, his voice full of a child's earnest promise

fierce hug, her heart aching with love for this precious, wo

dea it was a