I woke to voices and the immediate realization that I'd drooled on the fancy leather seat.
"...about two hours now," Sarah was saying. "Should we wake her?"
I kept my eyes closed, mortified. The voices were hushed, considerate—the kind people use when trying not to disturb someone sleeping. But I was already awake, just trapped in that strange liminal space between sleep and consciousness where opening your eyes feels like admitting defeat.
"Let her rest," Mom said softly. "She didn't sleep at all last night."
"We're about thirty minutes from the rest stop," Marcus added. "Might be good to wake her before then. Give her time to adjust."
Adjust. Because I needed time. Needed preparation. Couldn't just wake up and function like normal people.
I stayed still, listening to the hum of the engine, the whisper of tires on asphalt. My body felt heavy, weighted down by exhaustion that two hours of sleep had only partially touched. My mouth tasted like I'd been chewing old socks. My hair probably looked like a disaster.
The car shifted slightly. Someone getting out? The door opened and closed—once, twice. Muffled footsteps on pavement, then quiet.
I cracked one eye open.
Dad sat beside me, looking out the window. Just him. Mom and Sarah must have gotten out to stretch, maybe use the bathroom while I was still "asleep." The partition between front and back was up slightly, giving us privacy. Marcus was probably outside too.
Dad noticed my movement and glanced over. His expression softened.
"Hey," he said quietly. "Welcome back."
I sat up slowly, trying to salvage some dignity. Failed immediately. "Did I drool?"
He looked at the seat, then back at me. "Only a little."
"Dad!"
"I'm kidding." He paused. "Mostly."
I groaned, running my hand over my face. My skin felt sticky, my hair was doing its best impression of something that had given up on life entirely. "How long was I out?"
"About two hours. We're making good time." He pulled a water bottle from the center console and handed it to me. "Here. You look like you need it."
I did. The water was cold and perfect, shocking against my throat. I drank half of it before coming up for air.
Outside the tinted windows, the world had transformed. No more city, no more suburbs. Just countryside—rolling hills covered in new grass, patches of farmland stretching toward horizons I couldn't quite see. The sky hung low and gray with clouds that threatened rain but hadn't quite delivered.
It was beautiful in a quiet, understated way. The kind of beautiful that didn't demand attention, just existed.
"Where are we?" I asked.
"About two hours from the facility. Maybe less." Dad shifted in his seat, his movement careful, like he was trying not to crowd me. "How are you feeling?"
How was I feeling? I took inventory: exhausted still, but less desperately so. Disoriented. Anxious. But underneath it all, something else. That thing adjacent to hope that I still couldn't quite name.
"Weird," I admitted. "Like this is all happening to someone else and I'm just watching."
He nodded slowly, understanding. "Yeah. I get that."
We sat in silence for a moment. Not uncomfortable—just two people existing together, processing the impossibility of what we were doing. Outside, I could see Mom and Sarah near the rest stop building, talking. Mom's hands were animated, gesturing. Sarah was listening with that patient, professional posture she had.
"She's been crying again," Dad said quietly, following my gaze. "But different this time. Not sad crying. More like... relief crying? I don't know. Your mom has too many kinds of crying for me to keep track of."
The corner of my mouth twitched. "How many kinds?"
"At least seven. There's happy crying, sad crying, angry crying, frustrated crying, overwhelmed crying, relief crying, and the one where she's crying but doesn't know why and gets mad when I ask about it."
"That's eight."
"The last one is a subcategory. Still counts as seven."
I found myself almost smiling. "You've put a lot of thought into this."
"Twenty-three years of marriage, kiddo. You learn things." He looked at me then, really looked at me, his expression soft and sad and full of something I couldn't quite name. "You know we don't blame you, right? For any of this."
The almost-smile died. "You should."
"But we don't." His voice was firm. "You didn't ask to be born the way you are. Didn't ask for people to be cruel. Didn't ask for any of it." He paused. "What you did ask for was a chance to live without feeling like you had to apologize for existing. And if this—" he gestured vaguely at the car, the countryside, the impossible future we were driving toward, "—if this gives you that chance, then we're taking it. No regrets."
My throat tightened. "I'm scared."
"I know."
"What if I can't do it? What if Professor Laura realizes she made a mistake? What if—"
"Then we figure it out," Dad interrupted gently. "Together. Like always." He reached over and squeezed my hand. "But I don't think she made a mistake, Maggie. I think she saw something in you that you can't see yet. Something real."
I wanted to believe that. Wanted it so badly it hurt.
"Did I mention you drooled?" Dad added after a moment.
"You're the worst."
"I try."
The door opened, and Mom climbed back in, bringing with her the smell of damp air and rain that was finally starting to fall. Sarah followed, settling into the front seat with practiced efficiency.
"Feeling better?" Mom asked, reaching back to touch my knee.
I nodded. "Yeah. Better."
Marcus returned to the driver's seat, and the car started with that barely-there whisper of an expensive engine. We pulled back onto the highway, the countryside blurring past in shades of green and gray.
Sarah turned slightly in her seat. "About two hours left. The landscape gets prettier from here—more trees, more hills. Less civilization."
Less civilization sounded perfect. Fewer people, fewer eyes, fewer chances to be seen and judged.
My parents settled into quiet conversation, their voices low and murmuring. I watched the world transform outside the window, feeling the weight of exhaustion pulling at me again but fighting it this time. I wanted to be awake when we arrived. Wanted to see it with clear eyes.
Time did that strange thing it does when you're anxious—flowing too fast and too slow simultaneously. Sometimes I'd blink and ten minutes had passed. Other times, I'd check the clock and barely two minutes had gone by.
The rain picked up, drumming steadily against the windshield. But it didn't feel threatening. Just... present. A barrier between me and the world that felt almost protective.
"About thirty minutes out," Marcus announced eventually. "You'll see the facility soon."
Rain started—light drops spattering the windshield, then heavier. The world blurred further, softening into impressionist paintings of green and gray.
Then the trees parted.
"There," Sarah said.
The facility materialized like something from a dream. Not the cold concrete research complex I'd imagined, but something organic—buildings that seemed to grow from the hillside rather than dominate it. The main structure was visible through the rain, all glass and warm wood, lights glowing gold against the gray afternoon. Smaller buildings clustered around it like a village, nestled among trees they'd left standing.
A wall encircled everything, but it looked protective rather than imprisoning. Beyond it, hills rolled into mist.
"Your house is in the residential quarter," Sarah explained. "Left side. Professor Laura chose it herself."
*My house.* Not an apartment with paper-thin walls and neighbors who complained when you breathed too loud. A house.
We drove through the main gate—security waved us through with actual smiles—and wound along roads that curved naturally with the landscape. Street lights were flickering on despite the early hour, warm against the rain. A few people walked between buildings with umbrellas, but they didn't look. Didn't stare. Just existed, like we were normal.
Like I was normal.
Marcus turned down a smaller road. The residential area opened up—actual houses with yards and porches and personalities. Each one different, like someone had cared enough to make them homes instead of just housing units.
Then we stopped.
The house in front of us had warm wood siding that glowed even in the rain. Large windows promised light. A porch with space for chairs. Young trees in the yard, their branches dancing in the wind.
"This is it," Sarah said softly. "Your new home."
Mom made a sound somewhere between laughing and crying. Dad's grip on her hand tightened until his knuckles went white.
I couldn't make any sound at all.
We climbed out into rain that had gentled to mist. It touched my face—cool, clean, real. I stood on the sidewalk staring at this impossible house that was somehow ours, trying to make my brain accept it.
The front door opened.
My heart stopped.
Professor Laura stepped onto the porch.
She was exactly like I remembered—tall, elegant, gray hair in that sleek ponytail—but also completely different. Because she was *smiling*. Really smiling, not the polite professor smile I'd seen in passing. This smile reached her eyes, made her look younger, made her look like she'd been waiting for this moment.
Like she'd been waiting for *me*.
"Welcome home, Maggie," she called through the rain, her voice carrying across the distance between us.
Home.
I looked at the house. At Laura standing there like she belonged, like *we* belonged. At my parents beside me, holding each other up. At this impossible future that had somehow, against every odd, become real.
And for the first time in three years, standing in the rain with my terrible hair and my drool-stained dignity, watching a woman who thought I was beautiful smile at me like I was worth saving—
I almost believed it.
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