My “brother” has ordered us to start unstitching the genetic code of his waterborne creations, looking for the switches allowing them to thrive in a body that already has an implant. We’re supposed to turn them off, so his precious cousins will stop infecting his people. I’ve tried pointing out that this won’t clean the waterways that are already contaminated—adding a new strain of tapeworm to the water not only won’t remove the old one, it will double the number of infectious agents in any given sample. As there is no outward method of distinguishing tapeworm eggs from two different strains, this will just result in the water being more dangerous for everyone.

Sherman doesn’t care. Sherman is planning to become King of the World, even if he has to destroy everything to accomplish it. According to Mom, Sherman is reading these notes. I wouldn’t expect anything else. I know he’s only keeping me alive for as long as he thinks it helps him keep Mom under control; I know that as soon as she comes fully over to his side, I’m finished.

He never did forgive me for being the son that came before him. I am afraid for myself. I am afraid for Sal, and for my mother, and for everyone I love. But most of all, I am afraid for Adam.

—FROM THE NOTES OF DR. NATHAN CALE, JANUARY 2028

Sally—she likes to be called “Sal” now, I have to remember that—is awake. She’s starting to talk again, and her physical therapists say she’s not going to have any motor deficiencies. If she doesn’t have permanent brain damage (and how are they supposed to measure that? I know there was scarring, there’s always scarring when the accident is that bad), then she’ll probably be able to resume a normal life. She won’t even have a limp.

That’s all great. I mean, I’m really, really happy to know that she’s going to be okay. I never wished for her to die, although I guess if I’m being honest, I wished for her to get hurt a few times. Just so she’d understand what it was like to not get everything you wanted. Just so she’d learn to be kinder. But.

But this woman, Sal, she isn’t Sally. She looks like Sally, she has Sally’s face and Sally’s smile and sometimes she moves like Sally used to… and I think that’s all muscle memory, because those flashes of similarity are fading as Sal figures out how she wants to move. It’s like my sister suddenly has a twin.

I don’t think Sally woke up. I think… I think someone else did.

—FROM THE DIARY OF JOYCE MITCHELL, JUNE 2022