The question came amid a slew of expected ones: What drew you to this major? "My excellent mentor," she answered with a tight smile. What do you do all day? "Well, I study a lot, I experiment, and whenever I'm not in class, I'm working." No time for fun? "Well, sometimes I go to classes telling them about my major. It's a way to reel in newbies. Oh, and of course, I take a lot of tests." And then, the last question: What kinds of tests?

Joan blinked, taken aback. "Why do you ask?"

"Why won't you answer?" Her cousin prodded. Again: "What kinds of tests?"

She looked at him, confused. He was no more than eight years old, his blue eyes too intense for someone his age, with a fluffy cloud of cherry hair. Perched in his papa's lap like a rooster on a barn, he squawked questions as if answers were his God-given rights. Joan has only known her young cousin for a day, but she's fond already. Is this how adults felt when I was his age?

So far she has adored every second of her home visit. Aunts, uncles, and cousins she hasn't seen for months wrap her in their arms and coo sweet words. Joan felt like an abandoned cup that had finally been picked up and polished after months of being kicked underfoot.

Home is the only place where she can sparkle in the spotlight instead of shrinking in her mentor's shadow. At her parents' crowded dinner table, surrounded by loving people who look like her, she has fielded countless questions with enthusiasm.

Then little cousin Jimmy opened his mouth.

By all accounts, his question shouldn't upset her. What kinds of tests? But it brought back memories that made her mumble, "Please excuse me for a moment," before limping to the restroom, shutting the door, and falling to her knees. Bile shot out from the back of her throat and splattered into the toilet bowl.

Stars danced behind her eyes as she strained her twitching body. Slowly, they shifted into a constellation. The outline of a familiar face twinkled in her mind's eye. Don't think of it, she begged herself. Think of anything else.

But all she could see was his head on a plate.

It began on an innocuous Friday morning.

Joan stood at the front of a freshman biology class, pitching the university's newest major to undecided students. "Now, I know genetic engineering can sound a little scary! I mean, some would say what we do is straight out of a science fiction novel."

Unimpressed, the students shifted in their seats, and tapping feet betrayed their eagerness to escape Joan's speech. By all accounts, she shouldn't have been hyper-aware of their sourness — she'd come in during office hours ahead of time, asking the professor for ten minutes at the beginning of class. He'd welcomed her eagerly, but the students were far more cynical. They saw her as a foreign intruder, a poor perception given the political climate. One wrong word from her, and they'd start fantasizing about tomato tossing.

"But this is ground-breaking work we're doing! And even if you have your heart set on another course, you can always pursue a double major. That's what I'm doing! When I'm finally finished with university, I'll leave with two degrees: one in pharmaceutical sciences and the other in genetic engineering. Imagine how proud you'll feel to leave with two degrees!"

The students gazed at her with pure apathy. Joan needed to do something dramatic to reel them in, so she slammed the blackboard for dramatic effect. She smirked at their collective flinches. It was good enough for her; shock was better than ennui.

"It's hard for me to express just how revolutionary our department is. The lead professor fought tooth and nail, all so you had the opportunity to explore this amazing major. We're changing history. The things we do are pure magic. I mean, we're teaching fish to speak by tweaking their vocal cords. We're modifying their muscles and infusing chemicals to promote leg growth. This is unheard of in all the world!"

Now she had their attention. One boy in the back had stared out the window since the moment she walked in the room; now he watched her closely.

"And it's not just fish we're changing. We can genetically alter humans as well! Already we're performing clinical trials on eager volunteers. Ultimately, we hope to boost our soldiers' physiology. I'm talking 2020 eyesight, thicker muscle mass, taller, faster...you get the gist. We believe we can accomplish this in the next seven years. Then, we'll strengthen our soldiers at hitherto unthinkable speeds. Imagine how this could bolster national security! Now, I see your hand going up. Were you about to ask about steroids?" A nod.

"Let me assure you that no drugs are involved whatsoever. I see a few grimaces in the audience, which is completely understandable — when you're changing the world, some folks are bound to be a bit turned off. At every stage in technological evolution, naysayers have tried — and failed — to halt the flow of progress."

A girl at the front blushed and looked at her desk. "All censure should be nipped in the bud," Joan's mentor had taught her. "Painting the opposition as Luddites has been one of the best ways I've moved my ideas forward. Never underestimate the value of shame."

"Now, think about it this way. We're not really adding anything unnatural — we're using chemicals that already exist in the human body. Don't think we're changing nature. In truth, we're just...building upon what's already there. For those of you who are still undecided, this is an incredible major to choose. And we're the only university that offers it in all of Olathe. This may change, though. Surely, other schools will want to offer their students the opportunity to improve the planet. That's why I'm so excited to talk to you today. You could be part of the rising tide of brilliant minds that sweeps away outdated practices... and ushers in a new era." She let the moment marinate before proceeding to her favorite part.

"Actually, I — oh, gosh, I shouldn't tell you this." She fluttered her eyelashes at the ground and put a hand to her chin like she was contemplating something dangerous. In a lower voice: "No, I should not be telling you this."

Let that moment breathe. Let the mystery build. Then: "Guys, I'm going to tell you something incredible!" The whole class stared at her now, not quite enthralled yet, but they would be soon. "We're in talks with the U.S. government right now. Nothing's set in stone yet, but they're incredibly interested in what we have to offer. I recently spoke at a national security conference, and a high-ranking officer—I can't say who—for confidentiality reasons told me something you might find inconceivable."

Here she leaned forward as if telling a conspiratorial secret. "He told us our work could even win the war."

With these words, the whole class was spellbound. One boy, in particular, seemed enraptured: a tall blond, as thickly muscled as a bull under his football jersey, dropped his jaw. This was the moment that made it all worth it; this was the moment Joan could really sell the major as a worthy goal to pursue. Once she gave the final part of her speech, that exciting finale she'd rehearsed three times in the mirror last night, today would go into the books as a rousing success.

She opened her mouth, and a loud knock came out. Then the door groaned, and a tall, reedy boy peeked his head in. He was a new coworker she hadn't yet been introduced to, a vague, nameless blob at the edge of her vision. "Joan Chambers?"

"Yes." Joan's lips twitched downwards. "Can I help you?"

"You're needed in the medical wing."

"I'm sorry," she said, flabbergasted, "but I don't believe that's true. Actually, I'm in the middle of something. I'll be there in—"

"It's urgent."

"So is this. I'll be there in a few minutes," she said, firmly. "I'm almost done here.

"Ma'am." His dark eyes widened in panic. "The Director specifically asked for you."

Joan stood up straighter as if jolted by lightning. "All right, thank you for letting me know."

In mere seconds, her papers were organized, and her folder slipped under one arm while her thick brown purse nestled under the other. Flustered, she nodded to the professor and thanked him for his time. Since she couldn't deliver that perfect finale, she waved and improvised: "As you can see, we take care of some serious business! I'm off to help my excellent team members. I hope to one day see your faces in our historic and innovative team!"

She said this last bit halfway out the door, for the messenger tugged on her arm like a dog tearing a chew toy from its owner's hands. Then she slid down the hallway after the speed-walking stranger.

"Just what is this urgent business I'm being called away to?" Frustration seeped through her civil façade. People in the hall didn't need to hear the tirade storming within her mind. And, to be fair, this boy wasn't to blame for interrupting her speech; if he was telling the truth, it was the director's fault. But she couldn't bite down the humiliation bubbling within her. Right when I was getting to the good part! She seethed. I should have left on a rousing note; instead, I spat out some cheap line that's not even remotely memorable. "We take care of some serious business?" What does that even mean?

The dark-eyed student took her through a door, and they stepped out into fresh air. A cloudless, cerulean sky stretched out above them. "Sorry for interrupting your speech, but you're late for your course."

"What course?" Joan demanded. "I don't have any courses in today's schedule. Why is the Director making me do this? And what did he tell you? Because he certainly didn't say anything to me!"

"I don't know what goes through his head. One minute I'm standing next to him, speaking with him and another professor about random things. The other guy mentions some facial anatomy refresher course for students who want to become plastic surgeons. The next thing I know, the Director's telling me to fetch his star pupil." He frowned. "I tried to tell him I'm not an errand boy, but he insists. You know how he gets."

"I certainly do." Joan smiled grimly. "But I don't think this is allowed. I mean, I'm not part of the cosmetology department, and surely only students who are qualified can join—"

"There it is!" He hurried towards the health building and flew into the elevator. In the dark, cramped cell that lurched upwards, his voice fell to a mutter: "I completely agree. But who can say no to him? He gets to stomp around and play God. He sees all of us as rats scurrying around his feet."

"Surely the other professors could protest?"

"I guess he's friends with the person teaching this course. They made a special exception for you." He shrugged and offered a sarcastic smile. "Don't you feel lucky?"

Joan's lips formed a flat line. "Not quite."

The doors slid open, and he pulled her into the light. "So, you're signed up for the surgery in 213-L," he said, checking his golden, lemon-shaped wristwatch. It's the bare splotch of brightness on an otherwise dreary outfit of black pants and a grey button-up. "Okay, we made good time. You're just a few minutes late. Just head to the first empty table you find." The friendly thump he landed on her back nearly took the wind out of her. For a kid with a skinny wrist, he packed a wallop. "Remember, they already know you're coming. He-who-shall-not-be-named set up everything. You got this."

Before Joan could utter a single word of incredulity, the dark-haired guy scuttled off. Is this really what my life has become? She wondered. Strung around from place to place, and from task to task, like a marionette? But it was no time for philosophy; evidently, she had been assigned a surgery. Like a good little puppet, she stepped into the exam room.

A sea of disembodied heads welcomed her.

They sat in roasting pans atop folding utility tables that were been draped in lavender cloths. Each head rested center stage and face-up on a surgery station. There must have been 60 in total. Half of the heads in the room were still; the other half swiveled on their necks to gape at her, a latecomer to their class, an alien face.

"Yes, yes, welcome!" A cheery brunette at the front of the room waved her in. "Change into your scrubs and clean up, dear. We start in three minutes."

There was a small anteroom near the front desk where the brown-haired lady stood. Joan stepped into the tiny area, where a crisp set of scrubs sat beside a sink. After shutting the door, Joan slipped into the proper clothes. The whole time she prepared, puzzle pieces shifted around her mind. Why would her mentor sign her up for a course on facelifts? Did he find her facial anatomy knowledge lacking? Was he preparing her for yet another dirty, degrading job that chafed at her morals?

Maybe he thinks I've been too uppity these past few days. It's probably just another power play. Dirt from her fingernails slithered down the drain, chased by a current of soapy seafoam. He probably thought, "Looks like the little ant is once again suffering from delusions of grandeur. Let me be merciful and squash her pride, remind her that she's only here because of my good graces."

As Joan wiped the wetness from her hand with a scratchy towel, she imagined his voice, as clear as day: "Remember your place, darling."

There was only one open table in the exam room. Joan waded through the countless stations that lined the room in long, neat rows. At last, she reached the lone table, where a plump head laid, hidden beneath a white cloth. Each student around her unveiled his or her head, but Joan took her time. She was not eager to gaze upon a dead man's face.

The head bulged underneath its cover; whoever donated their body to science must have been large and strong. Bloody scraps of neck skin overflowed into the pan. A haphazard hacking job. How long had it been since the head and body said goodbye?

It didn't bother her; by now, she was used to gore. When the brunette at the front started her instructions, Joan lifted the cloth with ease. Her eyes never met the dead face; instead, she watched the instructor.

"Here's what to do," the brunette at the front said. She gave a quick overview of the layers of skin in the face, and Joan zoned out for a moment. She already know this, so she couldn't understand why her mentor would waste her time with a refresher course. Resentment festered within her. I can't believe he would just pluck me out of my life!

All around her, students picked at the gleaming tools atop their tables. Joan fiddled with the knives that shone below the harsh, fluorescent lights.

If he dares to call me when I'm with my family tomorrow, I'm going to lose it. She fumbled with the skin hook and eyed her classmates.

"Please watch the screen closely." Behind the instructor was an enormous monitor that gobbled up the front wall. Images played of the brunette's hand slicing through flesh, prodding at juicy layers of fat beneath. "See this technique? I want you to replicate it to the best of your ability." Her small figure was engulfed by the scarlet carnage playing on the big screen.

I'm sick of taking this treatment. I do everything he says, yet I'm still knocked around! Joan squinted to see the teacher's movements. She still hadn't touched her head yet; first, she needed a solid plan. Are they performing a nose job? A facelift? No one bothered to let her know. Perhaps if she'd been given the dignity of a heads-up, she wouldn't be floundering in confusion.

But such is the director's way, isn't it? She thought. He adores humbling people. Well, I'm sick of it. I've had it up to here with forced humility.

"Note the placement of the malar fat pad," the proctor droned. I don't care if he outs me. I'm clean as a whistle. I've never done anything he hasn't done. If he tries to blackmail me, I'm taking him down, too.

Joan missed some of the teacher's words; now, everyone was holding a different tool. This is the last time he jerks me around like a ragdoll. Joan stepped closer to the head with tools in hand. She'd been too distracted by her thoughts to start her work.

Why do I have to do this, anyway? A vindictive voice caressed her wounded pride. I don't have to even try that hard. So what if he strong-armed some staff members to wriggle me in here? I owe him nothing. He's lucky I'm even here. I had every right to refuse that false God's call.

Rebellious glee washed over her. This is the last time I do what he says. He's got nothing to hold over me. Maybe I should fail on purpose, just to stick it to him!

Then she looked at the face laying on the table and almost hurled. Black dots thrashed around the edges of her vision. When did she lose her balance?

"Um, are you okay?"

Joan cleared her throat, clinging to the folded table. The student at the next station shot daggers with his eyes.

"I — I'm sorry," she mumbled, standing straight, fighting not to faint, to cry, to scream, to flee.

She looked at the head and her resolve crumbled like a house of cards. There would be no rebellion. She would do exactly what she was told. Eyes burning with unshed tears, Joan sliced her knife into that familiar face.

Don't think of it. She clung to the toilet bowl. Bile dribbled down her chin. It wasn't Him. You were mistaken. It wasn't Him. It couldn't be. He's not even dead, so how could it be his head? He's rotting in jail, and your mentor would never do that to you. He isn't that cruel, and even if he were, how would he have found the resources to even get the head, to transfer it to that specific test room, to assign it just to me?

It's impossible.

She's mistaken.

It wasn't Him.

"Joanie?" Her father knocked at the door. "You okay in there, champ?"

"I-I'm okay," she rasped. "Just feeling a little sick."

"Oh, honey! Was it something in the food? Lord, I hope we don't all get food poisoning—"

"No, it's last night's dinner," she said, coughing wetly into her hand. "I had some shrimp rice, forgot to put it in the fridge. When I got home I was so hungry…" Her voice is a garbled mix of strain and cheer. "I guess I gambled on some shrimp and lost. Now I'm paying for it."

She could tell he bought the lie by his scandalized gasp. "Joanie, you should know better than that!"

"Sorry."

"That's alright, hun. You should probably lie down for a bit."

It's good advice, so she cleaned her teeth so hard her bristles flattened. As a child, the slow walk upstairs took forever with her stubby legs. Since she shot up to six feet, she took mere seconds to ascend to the second floor. Friendly faces clustered the bonus room at the top of the stairs. Despite the gnawing tension in her gut, this is still a place of comfort. Here, she is loved; here, people bring her water when she's sick and pat her on the back. I'm lucky for this life and I'm grateful, Joan reminded herself. You're home and you're safe now.

Her room was the same as always: ivory clouds drifted across sky-blue wallpaper, and a thick stack of fiction books gobbled up her cluttered desk. Now was not the time for reading, though, for Joan's eyes stung and her head throbbed. Settling into her soft, fluffy bed, she took deep breaths.

"All is well and things will only get better," she whispered into the darkness.

It's the truth, she assures herself. This has been an excellent day.

After all, today she met her baby brother.

The ride from university to her home should have taken half the day. For a safe driver, it would have been a slow, scenic drift from bustling cityscapes all the way to the rolling countryside, all over the course of around five hours. Yet whenever Joan was driving home, her foot stuck to the gas pedal like glue. There was a fear crouching deep within her, a frantic thought that if she didn't drive as quickly as possible, a fish hook of obligation would shoot out from behind her, latch itself within her collar, and drag her back, kicking and screaming. Home was too tantalizing a destination to resist, so she drove like the devil was at her heels. Sure, people honked. Sure, she saw more middle fingers in a day that she had throughout the whole year.

But it was worth the love that welcomed her.

"Come here, you!" Mrs. Chambers' booming voice echoed throughout the kitchen, drowning out the chatter from the front room. Behind her, a fragrant pot of beef stew simmered on the stove. Joan's mother took two long strides forward and threw thick arms around her daughter. It was the first hug Joan had in months, and she relaxed into her mother's touch, cushioned by soft, yellow kitchen mitts.

"It's been so long!" Joan's mother gushed. "Oh, sweetie, how have you been? You look exhausted. Have you been getting enough sleep?"

"Well, I've been getting as much sleep as I can," Joan said. "It's hard to juggle the workload, between classes and long nights at the lab, you know?"

When they pulled away, Joan noticed her father sitting at the kitchen table with two of his sisters. Joan's aunts look over and wave sweetly; one of them a toddler with intense eyes and fluffy red hair. The scowl on his face was matched only by the angry rooster cartoon on his shirt. "This is your little cousin Jimmy," one of Joan's aunts said.

"Hello, Jimmy!" Joan said. She would have been disarmed by the boy's intense gaze, if not for the squirming bundle in her father's arms.

"It sounds like those eggheads at the workplace are running you ragged," he said by way of greeting. "Is your boss giving you a hard time again? I know he refused to give you the Fourth of July off. Don't tell me that Pinocchio-lookin' Looney Toon yelled at you again."

"I'd rather not talk about it." Joan nodded at the wriggling mass pushing against her father's chest. "Now, what could that be?"

"It's your little brother!" His gleaming smile stretches from ear to ear. Soon Joan felt her own lips twisting upwards as she held the baby close to her chest.

"Oh, he's beautiful," She breathed. His sweet, cherubic face was the picture of serenity, and when she caressed his cheek, he reached out to grip her finger with a tiny hand. "And his hair! What a gorgeous color!" Dark crimson curls framed his pale face, and when he opened his eyes, a pair of dark sapphires peered up at her. "Hi, honey. It's so nice to meet you."

Nobody expected little Hart's arrival — especially not his parents, who thought they were too old for another child. Joan got the good news of his birth while away for the spring semester, and she was so shocked she struggled to focus and her work suffered.

It was why her boss refused to give her time off in July; instead, she had to work through the Fourth of July while everyone else got to go home. "You'll work overtime in order to earn your next holiday," he had sneered.

Whenever Joan recalls his ugly smile, fury blazes through her veins, but now that Hart's in front of her, pure and sweet and achingly lovely, she couldn't feel a lick of anger. All she felt was happiness, and her vision blurred behind her thick glasses.

Mr. Chambers took back his son and gave Joan a one-armed hug. "It's great to have you back, sweetie." His voice softened: "I know you were bummed you couldn't come back in July, but it's for the best. This little man was awfully cranky when the fireworks went off."

"Folks 'round here go absolutely bonkers," her mother sighed. "But I swear, none of those fireworks were louder than Hart's screams. He's got quite a pair of lungs on him."

"Maybe he'll be an opera singer," Joan joked.

"Oh, yes." Her father perked up. "We'll have Hart, the famous opera singer, and Joan, the world-class scientist who saves the world."

The three of them laughed, but Joan felt a stab of shame in her chest. Don't think about it, she chanted. You're gone now. You're home. Anxiety quickened her heartbeat, but a loud voice interrupted her thoughts before they could sour.

A bald man with sunglasses poked his head through the doorway. "Now that the prodigal daughter has arrived, are we good to go?" His bushy red eyebrows wiggled up and down. "The pastor's gettin' a bit tipsy."

"Oh, my," her mother murmured. "It's too darn early for a man of God to be sloshing down the sauce."

Everyone gathered shoulder-to-shoulder in the grassy backyard, listening to the pastor speak about kindness, holiness, and the importance of family. Normally, this ceremony would be held in the local church, but Joan's parents are close friends with the pastor, and they managed to convince him to make a house trip. Despite his tipsiness, it's quite sweet of him to pay us a home visit for the special occasion, Joan thought. Especially since his words are undercut by the clucking of chickens.

As her blue-eyed brother dipped below the tin bathtub's water, the huge crowd of redheads erupted into cheers and shouts of "Hallelujah!"

While Joan's family was low in cash, they were rich in cheer, and the group clapped when Hart Chambers was named an official Christian. He let out a startled cry as the cool water touched his head. The loud, waning cry lowered to a gurgle as he cuddled up to his father, who patted him dry with a thick pink towel Joan had used since childhood. The family couldn't help but titter at little Hart's startled expression. His beautiful blue eyes fluttered in surprise.

Once the main event is over, Joan's family disperses into idle chatter. Bodies settled into the colorful plastic lawn chairs; strangers lounged by the small pool with a rock fountain. The air is thick with the easy comfort of familiarity. There are no pretenses with family; they're unneeded when one has unconditional love.

Joan smiled as children crowded around the chicken coops, searching for eggs her parents may have missed. Red-headed people ambled through the overgrown lawn and carefully tiptoed around the flower garden. The air was fresh and crisp and full of promise, so Joan swallowed down the horror of yesterday and gave herself to the moment.

I am grateful. I am lucky to be here, she chanted in her mind, smiling at those around her. She forced herself to absorb every detail: The specks of hazel in her aunt's eyes, the freckles dancing around her mother's temples, the pleasant gurgle Hart made when he was full.

Eventually, she relaxed, giving in to the charm of country life. It was hard not to, with the sweetly attentive people all around her. Although they were surprised by her career choices, they were unconditionally supportive; she'd never known that kind of support in her past life, so she drank it up eagerly. Sitting down in the warmly lit kitchen, surrounded by smiling faces and chicken statues, she answered every question her family threw at her until the sun slipped from the sky and the world glowed in the orange, pink and gold hues of the late afternoon.

What drew you to this major? they asked. What do you do all day? No time for fun? Joan answered everything in good cheer, smiling until her cheeks hurt. Then Jimmy asked his question, and The Head came rushing back.

Every day ended with a prayer.

Joan used to kneel before her bed, but now she lies upon the mattress with her eyes closed, every inch of her body as still as a corpse in a casket. "I want to thank you for this second chance," she whispered. "I hope you are proud of all I've accomplished, and I hope you'll guide me towards greater success in the future."

It's not the most romantic sentiment, but ever since Marty etched his wrath into her flesh, whimsy is hard to come by. A few years ago, she sat beside Rick in church when the pastor implored the congregation to pray. She locked her fingers together and pressed her hands against her forehead, whispering words of holiness and gratitude. When she lifted her eyes, she found Rick staring at her with a quizzical expression.

"What? Is there something on my face?" She pushed her hair over her cheek, trying to hide whatever had him so disturbed.

"No, that's not it at all," he said. "It's just that, the way you pray is...how should I put it...?"

"Out with it, bud." She nudged a playful elbow into his side. "What's wrong with the way I pray?"

"It's kinda Spartan," he said. "You sound like you're on a business call."

She let out a bark of laughter so loud heads swiveled in their direction. At first, the idea seemed like another one of Rick's weird observations; over time, she has realized just how true it was.

Every night, she prayed in the same methodical way she brushed her teeth or washed her face. When she was younger, God's gift of a second life seemed mystical. Now, she is less mystified by why it happened and more concerned with how she can make use of this second chance. She knew she had to stop the White Flash, for why else would God have sent her back with this knowledge? She had already saved Brad and Lisa; it was a difficult task, but she'd overcome every obstacle that stood between those precious children and a better life. Now she had to save Olathe, but this seemed impossible. After all, she didn't even know what caused the Flash in the first place.

When her soul lingered in the afterlife and peered down at the world below, she was too absorbed by her family's legacy to notice much else. She watched Lisa, Brad and Marty drop like flies, and her entire being quivered with sympathy and a longing to intervene. The White Flash was just a catalyst that had sent Brad down his ruinous path. Now, it was a specter on the edge of her vision that made every morning feel like the dawn of the Day of Judgement.

Trying to stop the apocalypse was a Herculean task she didn't know she was capable of. How could she intervene? What could she do? Countless hours were wasted writing every detail she could recall, but this blueprint for the future became more uncertain now that she existed. Was her presence truly enough to divert disaster?

Of one thing she was certain: It all came back to Yado. She hated him, but she owed him. He had been the key to rescuing Brad and Lisa from their cruel fates, and it was thanks to him that they now lived normal carefree lives. But he was also the key to humanity's doom.

"God, please send me your wisdom so I can know which path to take," she murmured into her clasped palms. "I hope I am not succumbing to the sin of pride by thinking I can change the future. I hope I am correct in thinking that you sent me here for this specific purpose. I pray that I will serve you well. Please, don't lead me into ruin."

The thought of failure shook Joan to her core, so she worked as hard as she could to wriggle her way into scientific projects, into meetings with politicians and secret agreements with the military. She shoved her foot in doors where she wasn't welcome and threw herself into every project, for she hoped to one day find that crack in the White Flash's foundation. One day, she hoped for an epiphany that would make her path clearer. For now, she lingered in the murky darkness of uncertainty, fighting the fear that all her efforts were worthless.

This dark line of thinking leads Joan down the path to despair, so she fought her hopelessness with the daily chore of praying. Getting in touch with God helped her focus on the tangible changes she had already made. Prayer maintained her sanity.

"Thanks to me, Brad and Lisa were saved. Thanks to me, they have lived normal, happy, healthy lives. Marty went to prison, because of me. He has never hurt Lisa, because of me. I saved her. I am the reason she's lived a good life."

The thought relaxed her. No matter what she did, or failed to do, that truth was unbreakable. She gifted Lisa with a wonderful life. Thanks to her, Lisa survived past the age of twelve. Thanks to her, Lisa has never known a day without love, never known the feeling of starving man-hands grasping at her flesh. Thanks to her, Lisa has never looked at a rope and imagined a necklace.

"I have already atoned for my sins," Joan told herself. She turned on her side, hugged her knees to her chest. I am home and I am safe. She said it half a hundred times and then lost count. As the sun dropped below the horizon and bathed the world in the starry blue of twilight, Joan chanted these words until she believed them.

Tomorrow she will not wake up in her cluttered apartment on her thin mattress; tomorrow she will wake up in this same, sweet bed. Perhaps she will be woken up by her precocious cousins, peeking their cherubic faces over the bed and poking her in the side. "Come play with us, Aunt Joan!" They'll say, and she'll give a groggy smile and roll out to chase them around the chicken coop. She will have a golden weekend, and nothing will be able to corrupt it. Not even the memory of the familiar head on her surgery plate. Not even the Joy Lab.