Becoming Grey: Episode 20

Chapter 20 

September 2020 

The day had started normally enough. At least, Callie assumed it had. 

She awoke to sunlight spilling across her comforter and the distant sound of Juna laughing somewhere downstairs. For several slow seconds, Callie lay still, caught between sleep and the vague comfort of knowing her daughter was happy. Then she noticed how bright the room had become. Her eyes snapped toward the clock. 

“Oh, crap.” 

Callie threw back the blankets and nearly tangled herself in them as she climbed out of bed. Her phone lay facedown on the nightstand, silent and useless. She grabbed it long enough to confirm that she had slept through every alarm she remembered setting, then rushed into the hallway without taking the time to decide whether she was more embarrassed or horrified. She took the stairs two at a time. At the bottom, she rounded the corner too quickly and nearly collided with Hannah, who jumped backward with both hands raised. 

“Geez, watch it,” Hannah said, more offended than frightened. 

“Sorry. I overslept.” 

“Callie, you’re up.” Sally appeared from the kitchen behind Hannah, carrying one of Juna’s plastic cups. The sight of it made Callie’s guilt sharpen immediately. 

“Yeah. I didn’t hear my alarm.” Callie pushed a hand through her hair and tried to flatten whatever sleep had done to it. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how I slept that late.” 

“You didn’t oversleep. I had Hannah turn your alarm off.” 

Callie stared at her mother. “You what?” 

“You’ve been doing too much lately.” Sally handed the cup to Hannah, who accepted it with the grave displeasure of someone being assigned a responsibility without proper consultation. “Your father and I took care of Juna this morning. You needed the rest.” 

From the kitchen came the scrape of a chair, followed by Juna announcing, with great urgency, “More circles!” 

“She means cereal,” Hannah explained. “Probably. She also called Grandpa a potato twenty minutes ago, so language remains an evolving field.” 

“I am not a potato,” Stuart called from the kitchen. 

Juna dissolved into laughter. 

Some of the panic drained out of Callie, leaving embarrassment behind. “You could’ve told me.” 

“That would have required waking you up,” Sally said. “Which would have defeated the fairly complicated plan of letting you sleep.” 

“Oh.” Callie looked past her toward the kitchen. Juna sat at the table in her booster seat, still wearing the purple pajamas Callie had put her in the night before. Stuart sat beside her with his coffee and the expression of a man defending himself against serious allegations of potatohood. Nothing was wrong. Juna had eaten. She was dressed enough for a Saturday morning. The house had continued functioning without Callie personally forcing every gear to turn. “Thanks,” she said quietly. 

Sally’s expression softened. “You don’t have to apologize every time someone helps you.” 

“I know.” 

“You say that very convincingly for someone who clearly doesn’t know.” 

Callie opened her mouth, but Hannah held up Juna’s cup between them. 

“Before this becomes an emotional mother daughter thing, can somebody please take this? She wants apple juice, and Grandpa says apple juice is not part of a balanced cereal.” 

“It isn’t,” Stuart called. 

“Potato!” Juna shouted triumphantly. 

Callie took the cup from Hannah and headed into the kitchen. “Half juice, half water.” 

Hannah stopped behind her. “She asked for juice.” 

“She’s two.” 

“That doesn’t actually change the definition of juice.” 

“It changes how much sugar I’m giving her before nine in the morning.” 

“It’s ten-forty.” 

Callie turned. 

Hannah lifted her eyebrows. Over the last couple of years she had developed the annoying ability to make a single expression carry an entire argument. She was taller now, close enough to Callie that Callie could no longer dismiss her by physically looking down at her, and the roundness that had still lingered in her face when Juna was born had sharpened into something more recognizably teenage. This morning her hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, and an oversized Ridgemont sweatshirt hung over leggings while her phone disappeared halfway into one sleeve. She looked exactly like someone who had been awake for hours and resented everyone else for making that her problem. 

“It is ten-forty,” Hannah repeated. 

“I can read a clock.” 

“Evidence suggests otherwise.” 

“Half juice.” 

Hannah made a face. 

“Hannah.” 

“I heard you.” 

“Then why are you still standing there?” 

“Because you’re holding the cup.” 

Callie looked down. She was, in fact, still holding it. 

Hannah smiled with unbearable satisfaction. “This is going great.” 

“I just woke up.” 

“Forty seconds ago you were giving orders.” 

“I’ve been awake long enough to know you’re annoying.” 

“Wow. Mom of the year.” 

Callie shoved the cup toward her. “Half juice.” 

Hannah took it with a sigh exaggerated enough to qualify as respiratory theater. “You know you’re not my mom, right?” 

“Thank God. I already have one kid.” 

“I’m serious.” 

“So am I.” 

“You get really bossy now.” 

“Now?” 

Hannah opened her mouth, considered the question, and visibly decided she had walked into a trap. 

Callie smiled. “That’s what I thought.” 

“You’re still not my mom.” 

“No, I’m your older sister, which is worse because I don’t need Mom’s permission to be annoying.” 

“You absolutely do.” 

“Pretty sure it was included with the birth order.” 

From the table, Stuart raised his coffee. “It was. We signed paperwork.” 

Hannah stared at him. “Whose side are you on?” 

“Currently Juna’s. She thinks I’m a root vegetable.” 

“Potato,” Juna confirmed. 

Callie slid into the chair beside her daughter and kissed the top of her head. Juna smelled faintly of strawberry shampoo and cereal milk. One of her curls had dried flattened against the side of her head during sleep, and Callie smoothed it automatically before reaching for the spoon abandoned beside the bowl. 

“I do it,” Juna protested, grabbing the spoon. 

“You can do it.” 

“Me.” 

“Yes. That’s what I just said.” 

“Me do it.” 

Callie surrendered the spoon completely. “Apparently I have been dismissed.” 

Juna dug into the cereal with great concentration, caught two pieces, and lost one on the trip to her mouth. She stared down at the escaped circle as though gravity had personally betrayed her. 

Across the room, Hannah filled the cup at the refrigerator dispenser, deliberately making eye contact with Callie while pouring apple juice to roughly the halfway point. 

“That is slightly more than half.” 

Hannah froze. “Are you kidding me?” 

“It’s like sixty percent.” 

“It is not.” 

“Fifty-eight.” 

“You cannot possibly tell that from there.” 

“Can too.” 

“Callie.” 

“Add water.” 

Hannah muttered something under her breath. 

“What was that?” 

“I said I’m adding water.” 

“You absolutely did not.” 

“Prove it.” 

There it was again. Not the same Hannah who had once followed Callie around asking if she could come to the creek or complained that older sisters got to do everything. That version still existed somewhere beneath the practiced eye rolls and newly developed talent for making every household instruction sound like a personal attack, but she had acquired defenses. Sarcasm. Selective deafness. The conviction that every request ought to pass through an appeals process. Callie found this irritating mostly because she recognized far too much of herself in it. 

Hannah returned the cup to Juna, who accepted it with both hands. 

“Juice!” 

“Mostly,” Callie said. 

Hannah dropped into the chair across from her. “You’re insane.” 

“You’ll understand someday.” 

“Please don’t start saying mom things.” 

“I am a mom.” 

“Not mine.” 

“You seem really committed to that distinction this morning.” 

“Because you keep forgetting it.” 

Callie reached across the table and stole one of the dry cereal pieces sitting beside Juna’s bowl. 

Hannah narrowed her eyes. “Did you just steal food from your child?” 

“She wasn’t eating that one.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

“I know her.” 

Juna pointed accusingly at Callie. “Mine.” 

Callie slowly placed the cereal back. 

Hannah smiled. “Great parenting.” 

“Shut up.” 

Sally crossed behind them with her coffee. “Excellent example for your daughter.” 

“She’s two. She doesn’t understand shut up.” 

Juna looked toward Hannah. “Shut up.” 

Callie closed her eyes. 

Hannah folded over laughing. 

Sally stopped beside the table and gave Callie a look containing no sympathy whatsoever. “Remarkable how quickly they learn.” 

“Okay, nobody say that anymore.” Callie pointed between the adults as though she could somehow revoke a word after introducing it herself. 

Across the table, Hannah was still laughing hard enough that she had to wipe beneath one eye. “You said it.” 

“And now I’m un-saying it.” 

Hannah finally got herself under control and leaned back in her chair. “That’s not a thing.” 

“It is now.” Callie reached toward Juna’s bowl, hoping the conversation might die there. 

Instead, Juna lifted her cup proudly in both hands. “Shut up juice.” 

Stuart made a suspicious choking sound behind his coffee. Callie’s head turned toward him immediately. He had the mug pressed against his mouth, shoulders twitching despite his obvious attempt to disguise the laugh as something respiratory. 

“Dad.” 

Stuart lowered the mug just enough to look innocent. “I didn’t say anything.” 

“You were going to.” 

“I was breathing.” 

“You were breathing judgmentally.” 

That finally got Hannah laughing again, while Stuart glanced toward Sally and made the tactical mistake of trying to recruit an ally. “You inherited that from your mother.” 

Sally, who had already turned toward the counter, pointed one warning finger at him without bothering to look back. “Choose your next sentence carefully.” 

Stuart considered his options for perhaps half a second, then raised his coffee and took another drink instead. 

Callie nodded approvingly. “Smart.” 

“Survival instinct,” Hannah said. 

Stuart kept drinking. 

The kitchen settled into the warm clutter of a late Saturday morning. Sunlight lay across the pale counters and caught the fingerprints on the stainless-steel refrigerator that somebody had cleaned two days earlier. Juna resumed the serious business of eating cereal. Hannah checked her phone beneath the table until Callie kicked the toe of her slipper against Hannah’s ankle and earned a glare. Somewhere beyond the kitchen, the television murmured from the living room, low enough that Callie had not noticed it when she first came downstairs. 

Then a familiar word pulled itself loose from the background noise. 

Smallara. 

Callie’s attention shifted toward the living room before she consciously meant it to. The television was angled just enough from the table that she could see the lower corner of the screen. A red banner stretched across the bottom beneath footage of people moving through the entrance of a hospital. The sound was low, but the closed captions rolled steadily across the screen. 

Hannah noticed where she was looking. “Dad’s had that on all morning.” 

“I have not,” Stuart said. 

“Since eight.” 

“That is not all morning.” 

“It was when normal people were awake.” 

Callie ignored both of them and listened. The anchor was talking about another increase in confirmed Smallara exposures, hospitals in several affected areas operating beyond ordinary capacity, and temporary intake centers being expanded for people who transformed without an approved Guardian available to receive them. The footage changed to a wide shot of folding barriers outside a medical complex, then to a government briefing room filled with masked reporters spaced apart in rows. 

Three years earlier, the same word had belonged to Australia, Britain, travel bans, grainy phone videos and arguments over whether any of it could happen here. Callie remembered sitting at this same table at fourteen, half listening to her parents while trying to explain why shrinking a human being to four inches should have killed them almost instantly. Lungs. Heat loss. Circulation. Square-cube law. She had treated Smallara like an engineering problem because engineering problems had rules, even when the rules were strange. 

Now there were training courses for what to do when somebody shrank in front of you. 

Sally followed her gaze. “They added another facility overnight.” 

“Where?” 

“Wisconsin, I think. Or Iowa.” 

“Iowa,” Stuart said. “Wisconsin announced one yesterday.” 

Hannah groaned softly. “You know too much about this.” 

“It’s called staying informed.” 

“It’s called watching cable news before breakfast.” 

“I was drinking coffee.” 

“You can do that without national emergency coverage.” 

“Apparently I can’t.” 

Callie watched another line of captions roll past. “They’re still sending people to the facilities if they don’t have a Guardian?” 

Sally nodded. “If they’re stable enough to transfer and no registered Guardian can take responsibility for them. That’s what they said this morning.” 

“That sounds horrible,” Hannah said. 

“It probably is,” Callie replied. 

Hannah looked at her. “You say that like you’re surprised.” 

“I’m not surprised. I’m saying being three inches tall in a government intake center with hundreds of other people probably sucks.” 

“Four inches,” Stuart said. 

Callie glanced toward him. “That is not meaningfully better.” 

“I’m only saying.” 

“You’re correcting the wrong part of that sentence.” 

“Fair.” 

Juna had stopped eating and was looking between them. “Tiny?” 

Callie turned back immediately. “Yeah, baby. They’re talking about tiny people.” 

“Tiny people TV?” 

“Yep.” 

Juna considered this, apparently found it acceptable, and returned to her cereal. 

Hannah leaned back in her chair. “She’s going to grow up thinking this is normal.” 

The remark was casual, but it landed differently than most of Hannah’s comments did. Callie looked toward Juna again. She had thought versions of the same thing before. Juna had been born into a world where Smallara already existed, even if it had still felt distant then. She would never remember the years when a person shrinking to the size of a doll belonged entirely to science fiction. She would never remember the first shaky overseas videos or the arguments over whether Littles were still legally people because, by the time Juna was old enough to understand any of it, adults would already have built rules around the answer. 

“Probably,” Callie said. 

Hannah picked at a loose thread on the cuff of her sweatshirt, watching Juna for another moment before glancing back toward the television. “That’s weird.” 

Callie knew what she meant. Juna would grow up with Smallara as part of the world instead of remembering when it had first seemed impossible. “A lot of things are weird when you think about them long enough.” 

Hannah turned her head and gave Callie a skeptical look. “Very philosophical.” 

“I contain multitudes.” Callie reached for her coffee, remembered she had not actually poured herself any yet, and frowned at the empty space beside her hand. 

Hannah noticed immediately. “You contain caffeine withdrawal.” 

Callie looked at her sister, then toward the coffeepot across the kitchen. “That too.” 

Sally set her coffee down beside the laptop sitting closed on the end of the counter. “Speaking of Smallara, I got the rest of the results this morning.” 

Callie looked over so quickly that her chair creaked beneath her. “What results?” 

Sally rested one hand against the back of the empty chair beside her, apparently unaware that she had just changed the entire direction of the morning. “The susceptibility tests.” 

The room seemed to narrow around the words. Callie straightened, her attention leaving the television completely. “You got them?” 

“About twenty minutes ago.” 

Callie stared at her mother. “And you didn’t wake me up?” 

Sally’s eyebrows rose, and for a second the look she gave Callie was almost amused. “We’ve already covered my position on waking you up.” 

“Mom.” Callie heard the edge in her own voice and did not bother trying to soften it. Her eyes flicked automatically toward Juna, who was still occupied with her cereal and had no idea why the adults had suddenly become so serious. 

“They’re fine,” Sally said. 

Callie looked back at her. Fine could mean a dozen different things, and Sally had to know that was not enough information. 

Sally seemed to read the question before Callie could force it out. Her expression softened. “All of us are immune.” 

Relief hit Callie so quickly that she had to let out a breath she had not realized she was holding. “All of us?” 

Sally nodded. “All five.” 

Callie looked at Juna again. Her daughter was pushing a cereal circle around the bottom of the bowl with one finger, completely unconcerned. “Juna too?” 

“Yes.” Sally’s answer came immediately this time. “Juna too.” 

Callie looked down at her daughter. Juna was using one finger to push cereal around inside the bowl, completely unaware that a fear Callie had been refusing to label for the last several weeks had just vanished. Not every fear. Immunity did not mean they could not be exposed. It did not mean they could not carry Smallara somewhere else or bring it home to somebody vulnerable. It did not erase the hospitals on television or the intake centers or the growing map of American cases. It meant one very specific thing. 

Juna would not shrink. 

Callie reached over and rested her hand against the back of Juna’s head. Her daughter barely noticed, too occupied with chasing a cereal circle through the last bit of milk. The relief still felt too large to trust entirely, which only made Callie want proof she could look at. 

“Can I see it?” 

Sally smiled faintly, as though she had expected exactly that response. “Of course you can.” 

From across the table, Hannah leaned one elbow against the edge and gave Callie an amused look. “Of course she wants to see it. She doesn’t believe anything until there’s a graph.” 

“It doesn’t need a graph,” Callie said. 

Hannah’s smile widened. “You’d prefer one.” 

“I would appreciate one.” 

Sally shook her head and crossed to the laptop on the counter. She opened it, signed into the testing portal, then carried it back and turned the screen toward Callie. Five names sat in a neat list beneath the laboratory heading. Sally Grey. Stuart Grey. Callie Grey. Hannah Grey. Juna Grey. Beside each was the same status. 

IMMUNE. 

Callie read the list once, then again, slower the second time. By the third pass she knew perfectly well nothing had changed, but seeing Juna’s name there still eased something in her chest. 

“You know staring at it won’t make us more immune,” Hannah said. 

Callie kept her eyes on the screen. “I’m verifying.” 

“You verified.” 

“I’m verifying the verification.” 

Hannah looked toward Sally with the weary expression of someone seeking confirmation that another person had noticed the same problem. “This is what I live with.” 

That finally pulled Callie’s attention away from the results. She pointed toward Hannah without closing the laptop. “You voluntarily signed up for Guardian training with me, so maybe don’t act like you’re the normal one.” 

Hannah sat up straighter. “That was Mom’s idea.” 

“It absolutely was not.” 

“It was partly Mom’s idea.” 

Sally folded her arms and looked between them. “Do not involve me in this revisionist history.” 

Hannah turned toward her with immediate betrayal. “You said it was a good idea.” 

“After you told me you wanted to do it.” 

“I said I might do it.” 

Sally gave her a patient look. “Because Callie was doing it.” 

“I never said that.” 

Callie closed the laptop halfway and leaned back in her chair, now much more interested in this argument than the test results. “You literally asked me where I signed up.” 

Hannah shrugged. “So?” 

“You asked if there were age restrictions.” 

“That is a normal question.” 

“You asked if we could take the practical together.” 

“That was scheduling.” 

Callie started counting on her fingers. “You ordered the same Guardian handbook I did.” 

“It was the recommended handbook.” 

“You highlighted yours.” 

Hannah’s face tightened with the particular annoyance of someone realizing the evidence was becoming unpleasantly specific. “I hate when you remember things.” 

“It’s one of my gifts.” 

“You’re making it sound like I’m copying you.” 

Callie smiled. “You are copying me.” 

“I am not.” 

“It’s okay. I’m very inspiring.” 

Hannah dropped her head back with a groan. “Oh my God.” 

“You can say it.” 

“I would rather get Smallara.” 

The room changed instantly. 

Sally’s head snapped toward her, and even Hannah seemed to hear the sentence properly only after it was already out. Her expression collapsed into a grimace. 

“Okay,” Hannah said, holding up a hand. “Bad phrasing.” 

“Extremely,” Stuart said from behind his coffee. 

Hannah immediately grimaced. “Okay. Bad phrasing. Obviously I don’t actually want Smallara.” She glanced at Callie, and the regret in her expression gave way to something more mischievous. “I want you to get Smallara. Then I can boss you around and tell you you’re too little to hang out with me and my friends.” 

Callie stared at her. 

Hannah’s smile widened. “See how you like it.” 

Recognition came a second later, dragging an old summer afternoon along with it. Callie narrowed her eyes. “You are still mad that I wouldn’t let you come with us?” 

Hannah picked at the cuff of her sweatshirt, apparently trying for casual and not quite managing it. “You wouldn’t let me come with you.” 

“You were twelve.” Callie leaned back in her chair, already knowing that explanation was going nowhere. It had not impressed Hannah three years ago either. 

Hannah looked up. “So were you, like, five minutes before that.” 

Callie gave her a flat look. “That is not how age works.” 

“It felt accurate at the time.” Hannah shrugged, the smugness returning now that she had successfully resurrected an argument everyone else had probably forgotten. 

Callie shook her head, half amused despite herself. “You have been holding onto this for three years.” 

“I have a good memory.” 

“You complained about it for a week.” 

“Because injustice should not be forgotten.” 

Sally shook her head, but Callie caught the edge of a smile before her mother turned away. 

Callie let the tension pass and nudged Hannah’s foot beneath the table. “You’re still copying me.” 

Hannah kicked back harder. 

Juna immediately leaned sideways in her chair and peered beneath the table. “Feet.” 

“Yes,” Callie said, looking down at her daughter. “Aunt Hannah is being violent.” 

Hannah stared at her. “You started it.” 

“I tapped you.” 

“You weaponized your toe.” 

Callie gave her a flat look. “That is not a sentence.” 

“It is now.” 

For half a second Callie only stared at her, then recognized her own earlier words coming back at her. 

Hannah smiled smugly. 

“Oh, shut up.” 

Sally cleared her throat. 

Callie’s eyes went straight to Juna. 

“Never mind,” she said quickly. “Nobody repeat that.” 

Juna grinned into her cup. 

 

The television switched to footage from inside a hospital corridor. The camera had been positioned near a nurses’ station, and even without sound the strain showed in the movement. Staff crossed quickly through frame carrying equipment. A woman spoke to the reporter from behind a face shield. Another caption appeared beneath her identifying her as an emergency physician. Callie reached for the remote on the counter and raised the volume a little. 

The doctor was explaining that hospitals were not simply dealing with transformed patients. Exposure evaluations were filling waiting rooms. Families were arriving in panic after suspected contact. Vulnerable patients needed monitoring because early intervention remained important, while people who transformed required specialized equipment, temperature control, nutrition management and transfer coordination. None of those things existed in large enough numbers everywhere yet. 

The report cut back to the anchor. 

“Officials continue to emphasize that most Americans tested so far appear resistant to transformation,” the anchor said, “but health authorities are urging people not to interpret immunity as an inability to transmit Smallara. Individuals testing immune may still carry the agent after exposure and should continue following local containment guidance.” 

Hannah pointed toward the television. “See? This is the part I hate.” 

Stuart looked away from the screen. “What part?” 

“The part where every answer creates three more rules.” Hannah made a vague gesture toward the television as though the entire Smallara response could be blamed on excessive paperwork. “You find out you’re immune, except you can still carry it. Somebody shrinks, except now there are twelve things you’re not supposed to do. Then there are Guardians and forms and transfer procedures and whatever else they invent next.” 

“That’s disease control,” Stuart said. 

“That’s annoying.” 

Callie glanced at her sister. “Those things are not mutually exclusive.” 

Hannah turned toward her with exaggerated solemnity. “Wanna be guardian Callie speaks.” 

“Future Guardian Callie,” Callie corrected. 

That earned her an immediate smile. “You haven’t finished either.” 

“I have one module left.” 

“You have two.” 

Callie frowned. “No, I don’t. I did emergency stabilization last night.” 

Hannah was already reaching for her phone. “You still have transfer documentation.” 

“That’s part of stabilization.” 

“No, it isn’t.” 

“Yes, it is.” 

Rather than argue further, Hannah tapped through the Guardian portal on her phone and turned the screen toward Callie with an expression that suggested she had been waiting all morning for this opportunity. Callie leaned closer. 

Transfer Documentation and Chain of Custody. 

Incomplete. 

She stared at the screen a second longer than necessary. 

Hannah’s smile slowly widened. “Would you like to verify the verification?” 

Callie ignored the jab and took the phone from her to look more closely. 

Hannah’s hand immediately followed it. “That’s mine.” 

“I know.” 

“You’re touching my phone.” 

“You handed it to me.” 

“I showed it to you.” Hannah reached across the table, but Callie shifted the phone just beyond her fingers. “Legally distinct.” 

Callie finally looked up. “Since when?” 

“Since now.” 

Callie handed the phone back with considerably less dignity than she would have preferred. “Fine. Two. I was wating for our immunity status. We coulnd’t complete the class without it anyway.” 

“Thank you and you were not.” 

“You still have three.” 

Hannah’s satisfaction disappeared so quickly that Callie nearly laughed. “Why are we talking about me?” 

“Because I checked.” 

Hannah stopped midway through putting her phone down. “When?” 

“Yesterday.” 

“You checked my Guardian account?” 

Callie shrugged. “You left it open on the laptop.” 

“That is an invasion of privacy.” 

“You were logged into my laptop.” 

“It was already there.” 

“In my room.” 

Hannah hesitated just long enough to make the answer obvious. “I needed the charger.” 

Callie stared at her. “You have your own charger.” 

“Mine is slow.” 

“That is not how chargers work.” 

“It literally is.” 

“You took mine because yours was downstairs.” 

Hannah crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair, apparently deciding the facts had become hostile. “I’m not discussing this without representation.” 

From the other end of the table, Stuart raised one hand. “I can represent you.” 

Hannah turned toward him. “No, you can’t.” 

“Why not?” 

“You called me guilty before I explained what happened.” 

Stuart lowered his hand. “You took her charger.” 

“I borrowed it.” 

“Without asking.” 

Hannah lifted her chin. “Temporary unauthorized borrowing.” 

Callie looked toward Sally, who had wisely remained near the counter through most of the argument. “Does she realize she just defined stealing?” 

Sally took another drink of coffee. “I’m choosing not to participate.” 

“That sounds like a yes,” Callie said. 

Hannah pushed her chair back. “I’m going upstairs.” 

“Nope.” 

She stopped and turned slowly toward Callie. “Excuse me?” 

Callie nodded toward the laptop. “We’re finishing Guardian training.” 

“Today?” 

“You have three modules. I have two. We can knock them out before lunch.” 

Hannah looked toward the clock as though hoping time itself might intervene. “It’s almost lunch.” 

“Then before actual lunch.” 

“I have plans.” 

Callie narrowed her eyes. Hannah had used the word plans with enough confidence to imply details that had somehow failed to appear. “What plans?” 

“Things.” 

“That is not a plan.” 

“It is to me.” 

“Does Mom know about these things?” 

Hannah’s eyes moved toward Sally. 

Sally, suddenly very interested in her coffee, took a slow drink. 

Hannah stared at her for a moment. “Traitor.” 

“I haven’t said anything.” 

“That was very loud nothing.” 

Callie pushed back from the table and stood. “Come on.” 

Hannah remained planted in her chair. “You’re seriously making me do homework on Saturday morning?” 

“You signed up,” Callie reminded her. 

Hannah sank farther into the chair, folding her arms as though the circumstances of her enrollment remained an unresolved legal matter. “Under suspicious circumstances.” 

Callie stared at her. “You signed up online by yourself.” 

“That doesn’t mean you weren’t involved.” Hannah lifted one shoulder in a defensive shrug, apparently deciding that technical accuracy was her best available strategy. “You were emotionally influential.” 

The phrase was so ridiculous, and delivered with such complete seriousness, that Callie laughed before she could stop herself. “That might be the stupidest defense you’ve ever used. Also, thank you for proving my point that you signed up because of me.” 

“I’m fifteen.” Hannah spread her hands as though this settled the matter completely. “I’m supposed to say stupid things.” 

Callie considered that for a second, then gave a reluctant nod. “Fair.” 

Hannah blinked, looking almost surprised that she had managed to win anything at all. 

Callie let her enjoy the victory for about two seconds before holding out a hand toward the laptop. “Come on. We finish it, then I stop bothering you.” 

Hannah’s expression immediately turned suspicious. She looked from Callie to the laptop and back again. “That’s a lie.” 

“About Guardian training,” Callie amended. “at least till we have to do classroom part” 

Hannah considered the revised offer with exaggerated seriousness before reluctantly pushing herself out of the chair. “Better.” 

They moved to the kitchen island, where Hannah dropped onto one of the stools with the physical surrender of someone beginning a prison sentence. Callie brought the laptop over while Sally cleaned Juna’s breakfast dishes and Stuart remained half turned toward the television. Juna wanted down from her booster seat, then immediately wanted back up after realizing being down did not produce anything interesting. Callie lifted her free of the chair, kissed her cheek and set her on the floor with a collection of plastic animals from the basket in the living room. 

The Guardian training portal opened to a cheerful blue page that Callie had come to hate through sheer repetition. The course itself was useful. Necessary, even. She believed that. She had signed up almost as soon as enrollment opened locally, before Sally had finished asking whether taking on one more responsibility was actually a good idea. Callie had already read enough by then to know what happened when somebody transformed around people who had no idea what they were doing. 

Normal human instincts were dangerous at that scale. 

Do not grab. 

Do not place the transformed person directly on a countertop. 

Do not assume ordinary room temperature is safe. 

Do not offer full-sized food or unrestricted water. 

Do not transport someone loose in a car. 

Protect airways. Protect temperature. Reduce fall risk. Establish identity. Contact emergency services. Document medication. Avoid crowding. Avoid unnecessary handling. Speak normally. Explain what is happening. 

There were dozens of rules, and Callie loved them for the same reason Hannah complained about them. Rules meant there was something to do. 

Three years ago she had sat upstairs with a Raspberry Pi and tried to design an automatic enclosure door. At the time, the project had seemed half practical experiment and half intellectual challenge. The world had not needed Callie Grey to build anything. Australia and Britain had been far away. Generitech had been on television talking about treatments. Adults had spoken confidently about containment. 

Now hospitals were full. 

Callie clicked into the transfer documentation module. 

Hannah groaned. “Forms.” 

“You need forms.” 

“If somebody shrinks in front of me, I feel like paperwork should be pretty low on the list.” 

“It is. That’s why this is transfer documentation and not emergency response.” 

“You sound like the course.” 

“Because the course is right.” 

“The course uses the phrase ‘receiving guardian acknowledgment’ seven times on one page.” 

“Maybe you should acknowledge it.” 

Hannah gave her a flat look. “I liked you better before motherhood.” 

“No, you didn’t.” 

“No, I didn’t.” 

They worked through the first section together. Callie read faster, while Hannah had developed the unfortunate strategy of skipping anything that looked too long and then complaining when the questions expected information from the paragraphs she had ignored. Every few minutes Juna wandered over carrying one of her plastic animals and demanded that somebody identify it. Horse. Cow. Pig. Then she appeared beside Callie holding a yellow plastic creature that was probably supposed to be a dog, although its rounded face and questionable ears left enough room for disagreement. 

Callie glanced down at it. “Dog.” 

Hannah leaned over to inspect the toy. “Bear.” 

Callie looked at her. “Dog.” 

“Look at the face.” Hannah took the animal from Juna and turned it toward Callie as though presenting evidence to a jury. 

“Look at the tail.” 

Hannah rotated it again. “Bears have tails.” 

“Not like that.” 

Juna watched the argument for several seconds before taking the animal back from Hannah. She lifted it triumphantly above her head. “Giraffe.” 

Callie and Hannah both went quiet. 

Hannah recovered first. She gave the toy one last thoughtful inspection before nodding gravely. “Sure. Giraffe.” 

Callie pointed at her. “Do not teach her things wrong because you think it’s funny.” 

Hannah handed the alleged giraffe back to Juna and settled onto her stool with an innocent expression. “You taught her to say shut up.” 

“One time.” 

Hannah’s eyebrows rose. “Today.” 

“It was an accident.” 

“So was mine.” 

Callie stared at her. “You just deliberately called a dog a giraffe.” 

“No, Juna called it a giraffe.” Hannah gestured toward her niece, who had already wandered away clutching the toy. “I’m supporting her creativity.” 

“You’re corrupting my child.” 

Hannah looked pointedly toward Juna’s breakfast bowl. “Big accusation from the person who stole her cereal.” 

Callie tried to hold onto her glare, but Hannah’s expression made it impossible. A smile pulled at the corner of her mouth before she could stop it. 

It was easy, for a little while, to let the morning narrow to the laptop and Hannah being obnoxious beside her. That was one of the strange things Callie was learning about grief. It did not occupy every second. Sometimes it sat quietly somewhere behind everything else and allowed her to laugh. Sometimes she could forget for several minutes that Myles was dead, then remember because of something stupid and ordinary, like seeing Madden listed in the console menu or passing Games Galore or catching sight of a dark-haired boy from behind. 

The remembering felt wrong. 

The forgetting somehow felt worse. 

She had stopped trying to decide which reaction she was supposed to have. There did not seem to be a correct one. 

Her phone vibrated beside the laptop. 

Callie glanced down. 

MAGGIE 

For half a second her stomach tightened before she opened the message. Maggie had been checking on her more often since the accident, rarely saying that was what she was doing. Usually she sent something stupid instead. A picture. A complaint about homework. A screenshot of Luke saying something ridiculous. Things that gave Callie room to answer without talking about Myles unless she wanted to. 

This message was all capital letters. 

I HAVE OFFICIALLY BEEN DECLARED TOO POWERFUL FOR SMALLARA 

Callie stared at it. 

Another bubble appeared. 

IMMUNE 

Then: 

YOU ARE STUCK WITH ME AT FULL SIZE 

A laugh escaped before Callie could stop it. 

Hannah leaned closer. “What?” 

“Maggie got her results.” 

“Immune?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Good.” 

Callie typed back. 

Devastating. I already bought you a hamster wheel. 

The response came almost immediately. 

I WILL END YOU 

Callie smiled. 

Practically Guardian trained. I’m prepared. 

Three dots appeared. 

nerd 

Callie turned her phone facedown. 

Hannah was watching her. 

“What?” 

“Nothing.” 

“That was something.” 

“I didn’t say anything.” 

“You were going to.” 

Hannah shrugged and looked back at the training module, but there was a small smile at the corner of her mouth. 

Callie nudged her shoulder. 

Hannah nudged back. 

No conversation about Myles followed. Callie appreciated that more than she could explain. 

The television continued talking behind them. A map of the United States had replaced the hospital footage, counties and metropolitan regions marked in shades of red and orange. The anchor moved through numbers Callie only half absorbed until Minnesota appeared along the bottom of the screen. 

Stuart raised the volume. 

The local station had cut back in. 

“State health officials continue to investigate potential Smallara exposures reported in several communities,” the reporter said. “At this time, no confirmed cases have been reported in Ridgemont or the immediate surrounding county.” 

Hannah looked toward the television. “Still none.” 

“Confirmed,” Stuart said. 

Sally glanced at him. “Don’t.” 

“What?” 

“You know what.” 

“I said confirmed.” 

“In the tone you use when you want everyone to imagine the worst possible thing after the word confirmed.” 

“I have a tone?” 

“You have several.” 

Callie watched the screen. Ridgemont appeared briefly on a state map, a familiar dot surrounded by counties she had known her entire life. No confirmed cases. Ridgemont Medical had issued another notice asking residents with suspected exposure to call before arriving unless they were experiencing an emergency. The hospital had rearranged space for potential Smallara patients and had agreements in place for specialized transfers if necessary. Grey’s had stocked extra bottled water, shelf-stable food and cleaning supplies during the first rush of panic buying, although Sally had spent most of the previous week telling people not to buy six months of anything. 

Outside the window, Ridgemont looked exactly like Ridgemont. 

A delivery truck passed at the end of the street. Somebody two houses down was mowing a lawn that did not need mowing. The maple beside the driveway had begun turning at its highest branches, the first red edges appearing against an otherwise green canopy. Somewhere beyond the neighborhood, Grey’s was open. People were buying groceries. High school kids were complaining about homework. Somebody was probably standing in line for coffee downtown. 

Three years earlier, Callie had assumed something as impossible as Smallara reaching America would feel impossible when it happened. Somehow, it did not. Ridgemont still looked like Ridgemont. People went to work, complained about school, bought groceries and mowed lawns while television anchors discussed transformation outbreaks between weather forecasts and commercials. It felt irritatingly ordinary, and that, more than anything, was what bothered her. 

Hannah had gone quiet beside her, watching the map on the television. “You think we’ll get one?” 

Callie looked over. “A case?” 

“Here. In Ridgemont.” 

“Eventually,” Stuart said from the other end of the table, answering before Callie could. 

Sally immediately gave him a warning look. 

Stuart lifted one hand. “What? She asked.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

“No, but statistically—” 

Callie pointed at him before he could get any farther. “Absolutely do not start a sentence with statistically unless you have actual statistics.” 

Stuart leaned back in his chair and regarded her with exaggerated disappointment. “Whose daughter are you?” 

“Mom’s.” 

“Rude.” 

Sally hid a smile behind her coffee. 

Hannah looked between them, then turned back to Callie. The joking had taken some of the tension out of her expression, but not all of it. “Okay, but what do you think?” 

Callie considered giving her the easy answer. Probably not. Maybe they would get lucky. Something comforting enough to end the conversation without technically promising anything. Hannah was fifteen now, though. Old enough to hear when somebody had manufactured reassurance specifically for her, and stubborn enough to call Callie on it. 

“I think it would be weird if Ridgemont stayed untouched forever,” Callie said. “But no cases right now means no cases right now.” 

Hannah studied her for a moment. “That sounds like something Mom would say.” 

“I’m evolving.” 

“Into Mom?” 

Callie narrowed her eyes. “Careful.” 

Hannah grinned, apparently deciding she had gone exactly far enough. 

Callie turned back toward the television. “And if it does happen here, at least people are preparing.” 

“Some people,” Hannah said. 

“We’re preparing.” 

Hannah gave her a pointed look. “You made us take a forty-minute module about temperature-controlled transport carriers.” 

“You learned something.” 

“I learned that tiny people are apparently very picky about climate control.” 

Callie slowly turned her head. 

Hannah saw the lecture forming before Callie had to say anything. She sighed and slumped against the back of her chair. “I know. Heat loss.” 

“Square-cube law,” Callie added anyway. 

“Oh my God.” 

“I told you this in 2017.” 

“I was twelve.” 

“You also spent like twenty minutes arguing about whether people with Smallara were still legally people.” 

Hannah sat up a little. “I was a very political twelve-year-old.” 

“You asked whether they still had their memories.” 

“That was a good question.” 

Callie’s teasing softened. “It was.” 

Hannah’s attention drifted back toward the television. The national report had moved away from the map and was showing a converted government building surrounded by temporary fencing, portable lights and lines of vehicles waiting beside the entrance. Hannah watched for several seconds before speaking again. “I still think it matters.” 

Callie followed her gaze. “What does?” 

“If they remember.” Hannah pulled one sleeve down over her hand and worried at the cuff with her fingers. “If they know who they are, remember their families and everything, then they’re still them.” 

“Yeah,” Callie said quietly. 

Hannah nodded toward the television. “Then sending them somewhere like that seems…” 

The sentence faded as the camera showed workers moving plastic carriers from one building to another. 

“Scary?” Callie supplied. 

Hannah nodded. 

“Probably is.” 

“What if nobody comes for them?” 

Callie had no answer she liked. Guardian training had covered legal custody, temporary care, emergency transfers and what happened when a transformed person had no registered Guardian available. There were procedures for families who were vulnerable, immune, unwilling, unavailable or dead. There were forms and flowcharts for circumstances that would have sounded absurd enough to belong in one of Callie’s engineering notebooks three years earlier. 

The problem was that flowcharts were not people. They could explain where someone was supposed to go without saying what it felt like to be three inches tall while strangers decided it. 

“I don’t know,” Callie admitted. 

Hannah picked at the corner of the laptop’s trackpad sticker for a few seconds. “That’s kind of why I wanted to do the training.” 

Callie turned toward her. 

Hannah immediately caught the change in her expression and pointed a warning finger. “Don’t.” 

“I didn’t say anything.” 

“You’re doing the face.” 

“What face?” 

“The Callie face.” 

Callie frowned. “That is extremely specific.” 

“The one where you’re about to make something emotional.” 

“I wasn’t.” 

“You were.” 

Callie felt the smile forming anyway. Hannah knew her too well, which was irritating mostly because Callie knew Hannah just as well. “So you did sign up because of me.” 

Hannah’s eyes narrowed. “That is not what I said.” 

“It’s pretty close.” 

“No. I said that’s why I wanted to do the training.” 

“After I signed up.” 

“Coincidence.” 

Callie leaned one elbow against the island. “You asked to take the same class.” 

“I told that was scheduling.” 

“You wanted the same handbook.” 

“It told that was  the recommended handbook.” 

“You highlighted yours.” 

Hannah’s expression tightened. “I hate when you remember things.” 

“It’s one of my gifts.” Callie smiled sweetly. “My baby sister wants to be just like me.” 

Hannah recoiled as though physically offended. “Do not call me your baby sister like that.” 

“You are my baby sister.” 

“I would rather move out.” 

“You’re fifteen.” 

“I’ll find a way.” 

Callie turned toward the kitchen. “Mom, Hannah’s running away because she loves me too much.” 

Sally did not bother looking over. “I am staying out of this.” 

“You’re all awful,” Hannah muttered. 

Callie leaned sideways and rested her head against Hannah’s shoulder. 

Hannah immediately shoved at her. “Get off.” 

Callie leaned more of her weight against Hannah just to be obnoxious. 

Hannah shoved at her shoulder. “No. Get off. You’re heavy.” 

“I’m barely touching you.” Callie deliberately settled in a little more. 

Hannah twisted away and gave her an offended look. “You have mom weight.” 

Callie lifted her head. “What the hell is mom weight?” 

Callie lifted her head and stared at her. “What the hell is mom weight?” 

Hannah had apparently invented the phrase without preparing an explanation. She waved one hand vaguely at Callie. “I don’t know. Responsibility. Emotional baggage.” 

“That’s not physical weight.” 

“It feels physical.” 

Callie stared at her for another second, then grabbed Hannah around the shoulders and pulled her against her side. 

“Callie!” 

“My sweet little sister.” 

Hannah twisted uselessly against her. “Get off me!” 

Callie tightened her arm around Hannah’s shoulders just enough to keep her trapped. “She wants to be a Guardian because I’m her hero.” 

Hannah made a disgusted sound and tried to pry Callie’s arm away. “I hate you.” 

“Say it,” Callie said, grinning now. “Say I inspire you.” 

Hannah stopped struggling just long enough to look toward the kitchen. “Mom!” 

Sally continued what she was doing at the counter without so much as turning around. “Resolve your own conflict.” 

“I’m being attacked!” Hannah whined 

“You’re fifteen. Defend yourself.” 

Hannah stopped struggling long enough to stare at the back of Sally’s head. “This family is broken.” 

Stuart raised his coffee. “You’re just noticing?” 

Before Hannah could formulate a response, Juna came running in from the living room carrying the yellow plastic animal from earlier. She stopped beside them and stared up at the tangle of arms. “Hannah mad?” 

“No,” Hannah said, still trying to pry Callie’s arm loose. 

“Yes,” Callie said at the same time. 

Juna looked from one sister to the other, apparently decided the disagreement was irrelevant, and held the animal toward Hannah. “Giraffe.” 

Hannah immediately stopped fighting. She accepted the toy with both hands and nodded solemnly. “Thank you. Somebody here understands me.” 

Callie laughed and finally released her. 

Hannah smoothed down her sweatshirt with exaggerated dignity before dropping back onto the stool. “I’m finishing this module, and then I’m never helping you again.” 

Callie glanced at the progress list on the laptop. “You’re going to finish all three.” 

Hannah looked up sharply. “You can’t make me.” 

Callie let the challenge sit for a second, then folded her arms. “I can change the Wi-Fi password.” 

Hannah went completely still. 

Callie smiled. 

The look Hannah gave her was equal parts disbelief and betrayal. “You wouldn’t.” 

“I know the router login.” 

That landed exactly the way Callie had hoped. Hannah stared at her as though she had just threatened to cut power to the entire house, and for one brief second Callie almost felt guilty. 

Almost. 

“You are a terrible person,” Hannah said. 

Callie tipped her chin toward the laptop. “I’m a Guardian.” 

“Almost,” Hannah corrected, recovering enough to be annoying again. 

“Two modules.” 

Hannah gave the screen a pointed look, then looked back at Callie. “Still almost.” 

They finished the first one before noon. Hannah complained through most of it, questioned the wording of several questions and accused the course designers of deliberately trying to trick her, but she stopped skipping paragraphs. 

By the time the completion screen appeared, Sally had started making sandwiches and Stuart had finally muted the television. Juna sat on the kitchen floor building what she insisted was a house from plastic blocks, although every structure she made immediately became a tower and every tower eventually became something to knock down. Callie closed the training tab long enough to check the immunity results one more time. 

Five names. 

Five identical answers. 

She knew Hannah was right. Reading them again could not make them more true. 

She did it anyway. 

Her phone still held Maggie’s message. The television still showed the muted red banner beneath footage from somewhere else in the country. The Guardian handbook sat open beside Hannah’s elbow, pages full of diagrams explaining how to safely lift a person small enough to fit in one hand. 

It struck Callie then how completely the impossible had worked itself into ordinary life. 

Smallara had once been something the Greys discussed over dinner because it was happening to strangers thousands of miles away. Callie had argued about lungs and metabolism. Hannah had asked whether Littles still counted as people. Stuart had distrusted promises of a cure. Sally had warned them that biological change did not automatically erase humanity. 

Now Callie had a Guardian certification course open on her laptop. 

Her little sister was taking it too, no matter how determined she was to deny why. 

Her daughter had been tested for susceptibility. 

Hospitals were filling. 

Government facilities were accepting people who had awakened that morning normal-sized and would never be normal-sized again. 

Maggie had texted Callie to celebrate being immune. 

And Ridgemont, somehow, still had no confirmed case. 

Callie looked through the kitchen window at the quiet street beyond it, sunlight bright across the pavement and the first September leaves shifting in the wind. There was nothing out there to indicate that the world had changed. No sirens. No barricades. No tiny person running across the sidewalk. Just Ridgemont doing what Ridgemont had always done, going to work, mowing lawns, buying groceries and assuming tomorrow would look enough like today to plan around it. 

Maybe it would. 

For now, Ridgemont had been lucky. 

Callie had learned enough over the last three years not to confuse luck with permanence. 

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