The message is short. Polite.
Clinical.
“Dr. Sorala, we are required to inform you that your child, Nessa Sorala, has demonstrated a pattern of escalating aggressive tendencies in supervised environments. While we appreciate the complexities of early childhood development, we ask for your immediate cooperation in addressing these behavioral discrepancies. Repeated incidents may result in reclassification or reassignment.”
I stare at the words. My heart isn’t pounding. It’sdropping.
Reclassification.
That’s code.
It meanstesting. Evaluations. Genetic screening. Once that door opens, it doesn’t close again.
“Mom?”
I look up. Nessa’s standing on the chair now, tiny fists planted on her hips.
“Is something bad?”
I force a smile. “No, baby. Just work stuff.”
“Is someone sick?”
“Not that kind of work.”
She frowns. “You look like when the trash bot ran over our plant.”
I let out a weak laugh. “That’s because I really liked that plant.”
Nessa squints, unconvinced, but sits back down.
I stir the pot, hand moving in circles, brain spinning faster.
I don’t have time. Not to argue. Not to play this straight.
I need to fix this.Now.
Two hours later, I’m in the back closet of our apartment with a bootleg biosuite kit and a nervous tic in my left eye.
The lights are dimmed. Nessa’s asleep on the couch, raptor tucked under her chin.
I’ve got her favorite jacket laid out on the crate I use as a sewing table.
My fingers fly over the smartfabric as I embed the dampening mesh—woven strands of boron-coated filaments that emit a mild suppressive pulse tuned to low-grade bio-electric surges.
Not enough to hurt her. Just enough tomuddy the signals.
It’ll work. Ithasto.
I test the seam with trembling fingers, then power up the tiny core node tucked in the collar lining. The status light glows amber.
Amber is good. Yellow means stable.
If it turns red, we’re in trouble.
I zip the jacket up and sit back, exhaling so hard I feel lightheaded.
One problem solved.
