"Your dad's a pretty interesting guy," Eva said as they boarded the train to Warren Street. They sat down near the end of the car. A homeless man was sleeping on the bench opposite them, curled among several grubby plastic and paper shopping bags. Several colorful cartoon dinosaurs smiled at them from the Dino-Bites candy poster above his head ("Don't be dour, try our new dinosour!" exclaimed the bright yellow T-Rex). Sherry wondered how any adult could think that phrase sounded good. She'd asked Dr. Ashford once, and Dr. Ashford had told her that marketing people were always five trends and a whole decade behind the younger demographics, as if it were some immutable rule of the universe, like gravity. And Sherry didn't doubt that, somewhere, Dr. Ashford had written the equation to prove it.

"What do you mean?" Sherry asked.

"Kinda weird to wear sunglasses with a robe. Inside?"

The homeless man grunted on the bench and scratched the back of his thigh with dirty fingernails, and then he snored. The cartoon dinosaurs kept smiling, unperturbed, and the longer Sherry stared, the more threatening their smiles became, as if they were going to kill her, pleasantly, if she didn't eat their dinosaur-shaped candies soon.

"My dad's got an eye condition," Sherry said. "He's really sensitive to light."

Eva nodded. "That must suck for him."

"I think he's used to it now," Sherry said, shrugging.

The train announced their arrival at Warren Street. They bought coffees from I Say, Old Bean, the cafe just outside the station, and they walked the two blocks to Chapman, mostly talking about things they saw on TV, or music. Sherry liked music; it was one of the few things she still had left of her parents, the songs and the people they had liked to listen to.

"My dad, for whatever reason, was super into John Denver," Sherry found herself saying—and then regretting she had said it. But it was too late.

"Was?" Eva said, staring at her. "Wasn't that your dad back at the house?"

Sherry tried to change the subject. "Do you like Nirvana?" she asked. "My friend Claire introduced me to them. She likes music like that. She's got a bunch of Kurt Cobain posters in her dormitory." Sherry found herself smiling at the memory. "She used to take me riding on her motorcycle, and she'd blast Nirvana and ride through neighborhoods full of old people. It was funny." She missed Claire, and she missed riding around on Claire's Harley, and eating ice-cream with her at Curly's, and just, for those moments, enjoying life.

"You were hanging out with a college kid? That's awesome," Eva said, and grinned. "Guess you're pretty cool, huh?"

Sherry blushed. "My mom doesn't like that kind of music," she said, and sipped her coffee, which was good, and still hot. "She says that kind of music happens when hippies have kids."

"What kinda music does your mom like?"

"Old people stuff," Sherry said, and shrugged. Alexia had weird tastes, and Sherry had never heard of half the bands in her collection, and so she had always just called it old people stuff, just as she'd called her parent's music old people stuff. "She doesn't even have CDs. Just giant records."

"She didn't look that old."

"Good genes, I guess," Sherry said, glancing to her right, at a passing car. "People think we're sisters." And it wasn't entirely a lie, Sherry thought. On the rare occasions Sherry went somewhere with Dr. Ashford, people often mistook them for siblings. Once a woman had accused Dr. Ashford of kidnapping her, because, the woman had said, Dr. Ashford was too young to be Sherry's mother. The woman had threatened to call the police, but Dr. Ashford had told her that that was unnecessary, that they were, in fact, mother and daughter, and she had threatened to sue the woman for slander. Dr. Ashford had once told Sherry that threatening to sue someone in America was as dangerous as holding them at gunpoint, and it must have been true, because the woman had gone away without another word ("Slander cases rarely ever go anywhere, actually," Dr. Ashford had told her, once the woman had gone, and once she had explained the difference, unprompted, between libel and slander. "The only thing I would have gotten out of that, Sherry, had I actually intended to go through with it, is the satisfaction of seeing that bitch drown in legal fees").

"She can't be older than thirty," Eva said, and she sipped her coffee as if it were an ellipses.

Sherry felt her stomach lurch, then drop, slowly and uncomfortably, and she felt a weird sensation on the back of her neck, as if an ice-cube had slid down it. She quickly cobbled together a story: "My parents had me when they were teenagers. My dad says I'm their happy accident, and mom mostly just glares at him when he says that."

"Did your dad live in England?" Eva asked.

"Yes," Sherry said, and it wasn't a lie. Grayson had lived in England for a few years; he'd told her so, and he'd told her mother, who had wanted to see where he had lived over there, but had never gotten the chance to. "Only for a few years."

"So when did they move back to the States? If they were teenagers, I mean, it must've been pretty hard. And were you born in England, then, or in the States?"

Sherry hesitated. She knew nothing about England, only what she'd been told of it by Dr. Ashford, and what she'd learned on a short vacation there with her parents, who had gone to London to attend an Umbrella conference and had only taken Sherry because she'd begged to see castles. But they never saw any castles, at least not the kind Sherry had wanted to see, and they had never even left London. Then, finally, she said, "States."

"So they moved here before they were even in their twenties?"

She sipped her coffee to buy herself some time, and imagined she could hear her brain chugging in her skull like an old car motor. Then, "Mom's got dual-citizenship. I mean, she had it before dad. And her family's rich. They set my parents up with a place and stuff."

Eva stared at her.

"Then Raccoon City happened," Sherry continued, half-rambling, "and we lost our home and moved here, to Arklay City."

"Not surprising," Eva said. "Arklay City's gotta nickname. Raccoon City's Sister. It was built up around the same time as Raccoon City, see, when Umbrella was investing a lot of money into the area. But you'd know about that, I guess. Your great-grandfather's Edward Ashford."

Sherry hadn't known that, and Edward Ashford wasn't even remotely related to her. Her real great-grandfather, on her mom's side, had been a cattle rancher in Montana, and on her dad's side, her great-grandfather had owned a chain of local discount stores that had gone out of business in the 1970s.

"All of Arklay County is basically owned by Umbrella," Eva said, finishing her coffee and dropping the cup into a trashcan. "And Umbrella's owned by the Ashfords, right? So I guess that means Arklay County is pretty much yours. That must be cool."

"It's complicated," Sherry said, and she finished her coffee too, and threw it out.

"Some kinda legal thing with Oswell Spencer, right?"

"You know about that?"

"Yeah, someone I knew mentioned it once."

The first bell rang, and Sherry went to homeroom, and Eva went to hers. Attendance was taken, announcements were made, and then the class was dismissed to their morning period classes. The day dragged. At lunch, Sherry sat in her favorite spot in the courtyard, under a tree near the fountain of the school's founder, Henry F. Chapman. Scott had packed her lunch: a roast pork sandwich with provolone cheese and braised rapini on a crusty roll, a thermos of homemade apple spritzer, and a slice of buttercream torte. She ate her lunch; the food was delicious.

"Your mom's Alexia Ashford," a boy said. Sherry thought she recognized him, but could not remember from where. He had a mean face, and longish hair, and he was older than her, probably one of the seniors.

"Huh?" was all she said.

"She kicked my hacky-sack," the boy said. "We saw her."

"Okay?" Sherry said, confused.

"My sister was in Raccoon City," the boy said, angry. "She died."

"My mom had nothing to do with—"

The boy grabbed Sherry by her sweater-vest and hauled her to her feet, and Sherry trembled. His friends cheered and laughed. She wanted to kick herself, truthfully, deep down, for being scared of this kid. Sherry had survived zombies and giant monsters in trench-coats, had stared into the mangled face of what had once been her father when he'd—no, Sherry told herself, don't think about that right now, or you'll definitely cry—and she had watched her mother die in NEST. But there was something profoundly scary about someone who was aware of the harm they were doing, and who had every intention to continue doing it.

"My mom didn't kill your sister," Sherry said, struggling. She was smaller and reedier than the boy, and his hands felt like metal clamps.

Other kids had noticed the altercation, and they cheered it on. Fight, fight, fight. The boy swung, and his knuckles connected with her face, and Sherry saw stars. Blood dripped from a cut on her cheek, where his ugly ring had caught the skin. She didn't feel any pain, not in the way other people did; her pain felt more like nagging, dull aches than real pain. She could lose a limb, and Sherry doubted she would even feel it.

The cut crusted into a scab, instantly, and then it went away as it always did, left her skin smooth. The boy gawked. "What the fuck are you?" It sounded less like a question, and more like an accusation, as if he were calling her a witch.

Something struck the boy in the back of the head with a loud thud, and he yowled and stumbled, and Sherry dropped to the ground. Eva was standing a few feet away, another rock in her hand. "Next time, it's gonna really hurt," she said.

All three of them were taken to the headmaster's office, once the school doctor—Chapman had their own doctor, because they could afford to have their own doctor—had assessed that nobody had sustained any life-threatening injuries. They sat down in front of the secretary's desk. Only one of the teachers who had taken them in from the courtyard had stayed behind to watch them. The secretary was gone, an OUT TO LUNCH sign on their desk. The boy sat away from her and Eva, as far as he possibly could, and he said nothing.

"Thanks," she said to Eva.

"Don't mention it," Eva said, and smiled. "He hit you first." Then she waved over the teacher and said, "May I go to the bathroom, please? I really have to go." Eva left with the teacher, but only the teacher came back.

Sherry and the boy took turns explaining what had happened to the headmaster ("She's not human," Sherry heard the boy say, before the door had been slammed shut to deter would-be eavesdroppers), and then they went back, the two of them, into the secretary's office, and they waited on opposite sides of the room while the headmaster contacted their parents. The teacher stood guard like a grim bailiff.

"I thought it would be better if I came," Alexia told Sherry as she entered the secretary's office. She was wearing a pair of expensive jeans, and a dark blazer, and it was probably the most casual Sherry had ever seen Dr. Ashford dress. Alexia looked at the boy who had hit her. "You're the mongrel who struck her?" she asked him.

The boy said nothing.

Alexia went into the headmaster's office and closed the door. Sherry heard them talking, but could not make out any words. The boy was called in, and the headmaster walked out, muttering something about needing to do paperwork. Sherry saw him pocket a roll of money. The teacher-bailiff watched him go.

"Sit right there. I'll be back in a moment," the teacher-bailiff said, and she went away.

Sherry went to the headmaster's door and listened.

"I don't take kindly to your ilk," came Dr. Ashford's chilly voice. And there was something in her tone, a kind of threat, that made Sherry's skin crawl. "How old are you?"

"Seventeen," the boy said.

Sherry could hear the smile in Dr. Ashford's voice as she said, "Seventeen? My, my. History does repeat itself."

Sherry quietly cracked the door and peeked inside. Dr. Ashford was circling the boy in his chair like a vulture, and as she came around again, facing Sherry, Sherry saw something flash in her hand. Syringe. "You're a fucking weirdo like your kid," the boy said. "Fuck Umbrella."

"I've been meaning to test something." Dr. Ashford stopped circling his chair, and she jabbed the syringe into the boy's neck as casually as someone who had done that kind of thing several times before. "And you're going to help me," she continued as the boy leaped from his seat and sprinted across the room, and pressed himself up against the wall beside a potted fern, cowering. "It won't kill you quickly," said Dr. Ashford with a giggle that curdled Sherry's blood.

"You're fucking insane," the boy yelled, a scrape of fear in his voice. "Help!" he cried, and he tried to run for the door, but Dr. Ashford tripped him, and the boy tumbled headlong into the door and struck his head against it, hard. "Someone help me," he begged. "She stabbed me with something!"

"Scream all you like," Dr. Ashford said, and she kicked him upside the head just as she had kicked the hacky-sack, and the boy went out like a light. "It doesn't change anything." And, just as calmly as someone leaving work for the day, Dr. Ashford stepped over the unconscious boy, and Sherry sprinted back to the couch and tried her best to look inconspicuous. But she was scared and shaking, and as Dr. Ashford approached her, Sherry suppressed the urge to run away in fear. "Come along, dear," Dr. Ashford said to her, as if there wasn't a teenager lying on the floor of the headmaster's office.

Sherry said nothing. As they walked out, she noticed a plaque on the wall, and on the plaque was engraved a thank you to the Umbrella Corporation for its generous contributions to Chapman School.

"This school is owned by Umbrella," Sherry said, swallowing the lump of fear in her throat, trailing Dr. Ashford across the parking lot.

"I didn't find that out until fairly recently," Dr. Ashford said. "Spencer's been doing his best to keep me in the dark, and out of the affairs of the company." She shrugged, nonchalant. "Unfortunately for him, I'm not Alfred. He can't put me away on a little island and distract me with toys and paperwork."

"Why was that boy yelling?"

"The same reason dogs growl when they're scared," she said.

They got into the car, and Sherry stayed quiet out of fear. The Rolling Stones sang Sympathy for the Devil on the radio, and Sherry only knew that because her dad had liked The Rolling Stones. When she finally plucked up the courage to speak, she asked, "Are you going to hurt me?" And then the fear suddenly struck her like lightning, and Sherry wondered if Alexia was driving her somewhere to kill her, to dispose of her corpse where Grayson would never find it. But maybe, Sherry thought, it won't hurt that much. That made her feel a little better.

"Don't be ridiculous," Alexia said. "If I was going to hurt you, I would have done it by now."

They stopped for pie and coffee at a diner on the outskirts of Arklay City. Sherry got a slice of Dutch apple pie, and Alexia got New York-style cheesecake. They were sitting in the private room, the one usually reserved for parties.

"Why are we here?" Sherry asked, finally.

A familiar man approached the table, but Sherry's dad had told her that he'd died. Albert Wesker sat down beside Sherry as if she were invisible. He was dressed in a solid black suit, and his cologne smelled like citric metal.

"Sherry," he greeted, regarding her as if she were a vaguely interesting insect. Sherry stared at her reflection in his dark sunglasses, and though she couldn't be sure if it was a trick of the light or maybe her imagination, his eyes seemed to glow under the sunglasses like beads of restless laser light.

"Mr. Wesker? You're supposed to be dead."

"So they tell me," Wesker said in his usual bored voice. He looked at Alexia across the table. "We have a problem, Alexia," he said to her.

Alexia looked at her. "Sherry—"

"She can stay," Wesker said, and he ruffled Sherry's hair. But there was no affection of any kind in the touch; there never had been, or ever would be. "It concerns Sherry. Possibly even Veronica and Grayson."

Alexia stared, unblinking. "How?" She stabbed her fork into her cheesecake.

"You've attracted the attention of someone," Wesker said, and he paused when the waitress came over to take his order. He told her coffee, then sent her away and, once she had gone, continued, "And this someone is not someone whose attention you want to attract, I assure you."

"Wesker, I don't have bloody time for your usual cryptic talk," Alexia said, regarding him with a look that almost bordered on contempt. It was the same look Sherry imagined the other disciples had given Judas when he had sold out Jesus to the Romans.

"First thing is first," Wesker said, and he put a bottle of pills on the table. "For Scott. Higher dosage, as requested." He watched Alexia pocket the bottle, and then he said, "Now, you don't want my cryptic talk? All right." Wesker straightened up in the chair, clasped his hands on the table. He sat perfectly still; Sherry thought of those wax-dolls in that museum. "Miranda," was all he said.

"The Connections woman?"

"She doesn't work for them, Alexia," Wesker said. "Not directly. She works for nobody but herself. You've caught her eye." He stopped talking when the waitress came back with his coffee, and he thanked her and watched her walk away. Then, to Alexia, "All Miranda did for The Connections was supply them with samples. She lied to you."

"What of that project they wanted me to work on with her?"

"They wanted to recruit Miranda, but she refused to go on the payroll," Wesker replied. "The Connections, however, still want you on the project."

"How does Grayson, Sherry, and Veronica tie into this?" Alexia asked.

Sherry looked at Wesker, curious.

"Still unclear. Only that Miranda is interested in them, and that should concern you enough." Wesker drained his coffee as if the heat did not bother him in the slightest, then said, "I'll be in touch. I'm looking into things on my own." He patted Sherry's head, then fished out a five dollar bill from his wallet and tossed it onto the table, and left.

"I used to call him Uncle Wesker," Sherry said to Alexia. "He's supposed to be dead."

Alexia didn't finish her cheesecake or her coffee, and she paid the man at the register and told him not to worry about the change. Sherry had to half-jog to keep up with Alexia, who walked briskly and long-leggedly across the parking lot.

Alexia took out her cellphone and said, "Grayson, is everything all right at the house?" She paused. "Good," she said. "Good. I'll explain when I get home." She put the phone away, got into the car. Sherry got into the passenger seat. "Sorry," Alexia said to her.

"About?"

"This mess," Alexia said.

Sherry shrugged. "My whole life's been a mess since Raccoon City."

Alexia backed out of the parking lot, and drove. Rain beaded on the windows, and then it drummed on the roof and the hood of the car. The tires hissed over wet asphalt. "I won't let Miranda hurt you," Alexia said, and she sounded like she meant it. "Or Veronica or Grayson." She shook her head. "Not that Grayson really needs me to protect him."

"Who are The Connections, Dr. Ashford? Miranda?"

Alexia said nothing.

"Does she want the G-Virus?" Sherry asked.

"I don't know, Sherry."