“How so?”
“Not sure yet. I can’t really guess until I see and understand more.” I tap a few more buttons to set up the machine and then let her into the room. “Let’s get started.”
She skips up and her shoes tap happily inside.
“Oh,” I say and press the intercom button. “We can’t have Bluetooth or Wi-Fi in here, but I found an old AM/FM radio. I tuned it to some pop station. I hope that’s okay. I figured better than nothing.” I point to a dusty stereo in the corner.
She smiles at me through the glass, giving me a big thumbs-up. The way she looks at me makes me feel like I just saved Schrödinger’s cat.
I busy myself on the computer and she turns up the radio. It’s a song I don’t recognize but she seems to be okay with it. She bobs her head and taps her left foot as she digests the rhythm of the song.
And just like that, she’s off. She dances and swirls and it’s the most satisfying thing to witness. If I thought she was brilliant before, hearing the rhythmic accompaniment of her shoes brings it to the next level. She must be improvising but anybody watching would think she’d spent months preparing this performance.
And I am a hopeless dork with a super-crush.
I’m so lost in watching her that it’s not until the third song that I realize she’s not glowing. I mean, outside the healthy glow of exertion that dews her face and neck with sweat.
The cameras are ready to measure her but I never trigger them because … she doesn’t seem to be working. A different sort of feeling niggles its way to the back of my brain. Have I been duped? Has this been a trick to get access to this room? What, exactly, was I risking my career for?
I clamp down the dark thoughts. Not everybody is set on evil. Not everybody is out to get me. There has to be an explanation. When the song ends, I hit the button and buzz her out of the room. She’s panting heavily when she exits.
“That was amazing. The acoustics in that room are incredible.” She grabs a towel from the gym bag she brought. Her eyes sparkle with joy. “I feel amazing. I haven’t been able to do that many songs in as a long as I can remember. My hands aren’t even glowing. Look.” She thrusts her hands out to show me. “They’re totally normal.”
She’s so happy. We’re spending our little bit of spare time in a multi-million-dollar test facility. I fight back the worry that threatens me. I can’t get angry. I favor my father’s large size and if I lose my temper, I scare people. I work so regularly to keep myself nonthreatening.
“That’s great.” I force a smile.
My clipped tone immediately flags my change in temperament. But I’m tired. She must be too. It’s always one step forward, two steps back with this project. Somedays it’s like I’m running upstream against the current. Like someone wants me to fail.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“I think that’s enough for the day.”
All her effervescent joy from a moment ago dissolves into a frown.
