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Hana sat at the desk and set up a tablet, with its myriad sensors aimed at my face. I recognized the device right away—one of the next-gen polygraph rigs.

In the analog days, polygraphists would tie rubber tubes called pneumographs around a suspect’s chest to provide a metric for respiratory rates. Blood pressure cuffs would be velcroed to arms. Finger plates called galvanometers would be attached to fingers to measure the skin’s ability to conduct electricity.

This tablet did all of that on a no-contact basis with transdermal optical imaging software that extracted real-time measurements of blood pressure, pulse rate, sweat detection, respiratory rate, and iris dilation based on ambient light penetration of the skin’s outer layer.

I knew from my own experience in law enforcement that lie-detector tests don’t actually detect lies. They detect guilty feelings, which most people experience when they lie, evidenced by dramatic swings in the metrics the tablet facing me was designed to track.

Hana insisted that everyone leave. Then she told me a bit about herself and how she approached her job. I told her a little about me, although I was certain none of what I revealed was new information to her.

She asked about my life. She asked how I felt about being in this glass cell.

“Anxious and afraid,” I said.

“I bet.”

Like the best polygraphists I’d worked with, she exuded a sense of wanting me to succeed, of being in my corner, and of believing the best in me.

She was already profiling me, of course, getting baseline readings, gathering a preliminary assessment of my reactions. How I processed questions.

“Logan,” Hana said finally, “if it’s okay with you, I’d like to begin the examination.”

“Ready when you are.”

“Remember. Yes or no answers only, please.”

I could see the reflection of the tablet’s screen in the glass behind her.

She touched the screen, which I assumed started the test, and then turned over a sheet of paper and lifted a pencil.

“Is your name Logan Ramsay?”

“Yes.”

She checked off the first question.

“Do you live in Arlington, Virginia?”

“Yes.”

Another check.

“Have you ever been dishonest with someone?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to be dishonest with me during this interview?”

“No.”

She checked off her question and studied her tablet.

“Have you ever changed your own genome?”

“No.”

“Have you noticed any changes in your body since you were injured in Denver?”

“Yes.”

“Have you noticed any changes in your mind since you were injured in Denver?”

“Yes.”

“Have you told anyone about these changes?”

“No.”

“Have you told your wife?”

“No.”

“Have you told your daughter?”

“No.”

“Have you told your sister, Kara?”

“No.”

“Have you told any friends?”

“No.”

“Did someone send a text to you yesterday that said ‘They know you’re changing’?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know the identity of this person?”

“No.”

“Are you the son of Miriam Ramsay?”

“Yes.”

“Is your mother still alive?”

“No.”

“Have you been working with her?”

What? “No.”

“Did Miriam Ramsay change your genome?”

“No.”

“Do you know who changed your genome?”

“No.”

For the first time during the questioning, she looked at me instead of the sheet of paper or her tablet.

“Are you lying to me right now, Logan?”

“No.”

“Are you controlling your breathing right now, Logan?”

“No.”

“Are you controlling your heart rate?”

“No.”

“Are you controlling your blood pressure?”

“No.”

Hana touched the tablet’s screen again. “That’s it,” she said.

The door to the cell opened.

Edwin waited in the doorway as Hana gathered up her things.

He said to her, “I’ll have your report…”

“Before the end of the day.”

Edwin entered the cell and took a seat at the desk. I noticed he wore an earpiece.

He looked back at the man-beast and the woman holding the Taser. “Wait outside.”

After they shut the glass door, I said, “Why are you asking me about my mother?”

“Because she’s alive.”

“Fuck you.”

He took out his phone and placed it on the table.

“One year ago, she broke into my house and sent me a video of her standing in my kitchen, holding a wineglass.”

I pressed play.

If the video was a deepfake, it had been masterfully done.

Miriam’s hair had turned silver, she’d made numerous cosmetic changes (probably to elude facial-recognition AI), and her face was gaunt and lined with more wrinkles than the last time I’d seen her. But it was unquestionably my mother. I would’ve known those eyes—dark and frighteningly intense—anywhere.