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father. Even though I could almost imagine performing a quick, formal introduction between them, I knew Viv wanted something else entirely. She wanted to have a real conversation, and if she got within three feet of my father, she would do her warm, friendly, intelligent best to make that happen. He’d respond, too, and then—and then, she would say something like, I was looking for ward to meeting Eli’s mother, too. Where is she?
    My father was now raising an eyebrow at my shorts and T-shirt and sneakers.
    â€œI’ll be in the cap and gown anyway,” I said. “No one will see these. And it’s hot out.”
    Unexpectedly, he nodded. “I wore a tie-dyed shirt at my college graduation.”
    â€œOh,” I said. It was hard to remember that my father had once been a radical student type. But there were pictures of him and my mother to prove it. Somewhere.
    My mind was really still on Viv. Maybe, if I was careful, this introduction could be done quickly and be over with. I said, casually, laying the groundwork: “There’ll be kids dressed up and down, both. The valedictorian—that’s Viv Fadiman—is dressing up. I’ll probably introduce you to her later. She’s a good friend of mine.”
    My father nodded absently. Then he frowned, and I had the sudden idea that he was trying to say something, but wasn’t sure how to do it. He said finally, “Are you nervous about your speech?”
    I felt a pang of guilt. To call my speech dull was to understate the case. It was a masterpiece of banality; I’d modeled it on a half-dozen of the dullest graduation speeches that I’d been able to find on the Internet. It had actually been pure cynical fun to write. And, of course, I was also making certain that if anybody did happen to talk about speeches afterward, it would be Viv’s they praised. Until this moment, I hadn’t thought much about how my father might feel as he listened to one unmemorable cliché after another.
    â€œUh,” I said. “No. I’m not nervous.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œNo. Viv Fadiman—the valedictorian, I just mentioned her—she’s making the long speech. Mine is just a few minutes. No big deal.”
    â€œTo me it is,” said my father quietly. He looked me right in the face, and I realized then that this was what he’d been trying to say. That he—that despite all the anger between us lately—
    And suddenly I felt like an experimental rat in a lab cage, with sharp objects jabbing at me from all sides. It was the emotional analogue to the way I’d felt yesterday, poked and prodded, tissue- and blood-sampled, lung-capacity and heart-rate measured, for nearly three hours in the medical exam that all new Wyatt Transgenics employees apparently had to undergo.
    â€œBye,” I said abruptly. “See you later.”
    â€œSee you later,” said my father.
    I ran, even though I wasn’t eager to face Viv’s expectations, either. But the day lay before me, and it had to be lived through. At least, I thought, I fully understood the situation. The afternoon would be like kayaking through white water. Terrible things might happen, sure, but you had studied the river’s hazards, you trusted your instincts and your equipment, and you had survived tricky situations before.
    In fact, as it actually said in my boring speech: Be not troubled: for all things must pass . Matthew, 24:6.
    That was what I was thinking right up to the moment I stood behind the podium to deliver the speech. That was when I glanced casually out into the audience toward the eighth row of spectators, where I had seen my father sitting earlier—and found him standing. Standing, and staring, with incredulous fury pulsing off him—a fury that I could feel all the way from where I was.
    I followed his eyes—
    â€”to Dr. Quincy Wyatt, who was at that very moment using his cane to ease