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gone—“and I will never die.”
    “Perfect is,” Uncle Antonio whispers, “as perfect does, Pia.”
    I almost laugh at him for sounding cliché, but his eyes are so solemn I stay quiet.
    “Anyway,” he says, “if you’re so perfect, Chipmunk, why does he keep testing you?”
    “That’s not fair and you know it.”
    “Did you ever consider…” He stops, shakes his head.
    “What? Consider what?”
    His eyes flicker over his shoulder before he answers. “You know.
Not
passing.”
    “Failing on purpose? Why? Just so I don’t have to take any more tests?”
    He spreads his hands as if to say,
Exactly
.
    “
Because
, Uncle Antonio, then I’d never be allowed to join the Immortis team. I’d never know how they made me the way I am.”
And I’d never be able to help make others like me
. “You know as well as I that I’ll never learn the secret of Immortis until I’m part of the team. That is”—I give him an encouraging smile—“unless you want to tell it to me?”
    Uncle Antonio sighs. “Pia, don’t.”
    “Come on. Tell me. I know all about the elysia flower…but what about the catalyst? How do they make Immortis?”
    “You know I won’t tell you anything, so stop asking.”
    I watch him closely, but he can be as impassive as Uncle Paolo when it suits him. A moment later we reach the menagerie, but instead of going inside, I stand and stare at the door.
    “What’s the matter?” asks Uncle Antonio.
    I look down at the sparrow. His wings are splayed over my palms and his head is abnormally still. I feel the beat of his tiny heart in my palm, so faint it’s hardly there at all.
    In this moment, I suddenly find myself not caring about being the perfect, obedient scientist. It’s an irrational whim, and I’ll probably regret it in less than a minute, but I open my hands until they’re flat, lift the sparrow up, and gently thrust him into the air. Surprised and disoriented, he drops a full foot before spreading his wings. Then he hurls himself skyward, climbing high above the roof of the menagerie to disappear into the darkening sky.

TWO
    I wake the next morning to thunder.
    Above me, the branches of the trees shudder in a strong wind, and every few seconds lightning flares over them, like hot white branches of some larger, celestial tree. The thunder is so deep I feel it in my ribcage.
    For a moment, I just lie in bed and stare. I love thunderstorms. I love the raw, unpredictable power shattering the air, shaking the jungle, searing the boundary between earth and sky. The lightning fills my room with bursts of light, making my pale skin seem even whiter. Outside, the vines of lianas in the trees thrash like snakes.
    After several minutes, I drag myself from bed and yawn my way into the bathroom. As I brush my teeth, the lights above my mirror flicker. The storm must be interfering with the power, but I ignore it. It seems like every other thunderstorm that rolls overhead knocks the power out for fifteen minutes or so, before Clarence gets the backup generators running.There’s a flashlight in my sock drawer just in case, but it’s light enough outside that I won’t need it.
    After showering and dressing, I jog to the dining hall and snag a bagel and a banana from the kitchen. It’s not raining yet, but judging by the thickness of the clouds, it won’t be long off. I clamp the bagel between my teeth as I peel the banana and head for the gym. There’s time for a couple of miles on the treadmill before my lessons with Uncle Antonio.
    Uncle Antonio’s main job is my education. We alternate subjects every day, according to a curriculum Uncle Paolo writes out. Yesterday, after the Wickham test, was mathematics (we studied combinatorics—easy). Today is microbiology. Tomorrow could be botany, biomedics, zoology, genetics, or any of the various fields represented by the residents of Little Cam. Uncle Antonio really only tutors me half of the time. The rest of my studies are done under the