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enter the room, they crane their necks looking for someone and I automatically know that person is me. Sure enough, the woman finds me on the opposite side of the room and rushes over with her partner.
    I sigh and elbow Zen in the ribs. It’s another couple that wants to cash in on The Hotties’ fame and fortune.
    “Melody Mayflower!” the woman gushes. “We’ve waited for this moment for such a long time!”
    I stop them before they can even start their spiel.
    “Take the YDNA test,” I tell them.
    They look at each other, baffled.
    “What?” they ask at the same time.
    “You think I’m your long-lost daughter, right?” I say, not waiting for them to reply. “You need to take the YDNA test to prove it. They should have told you that before they let you in here.”
    I know I sound harsh. But you would be jaded too if you had been confronted by hundreds of counterfeiting couples claiming to be your long-lost birthparents.
    Now that I’ve actually gotten a close look at the woman, I see she’s actually quite attractive in the all-natural surgical aesthetic that’s the opposite of what’s trending for obsolescents these days. I mean, like, every twentysomething Team Hottie intern has erased all outward traces of her genetic identity with forehead extensions, skin dyes, and nasal implants, but this woman’s face is refreshingly human . There’s something else about the stranger’s appearance that makes me linger longer over her features—clear blue eyes, high cheekbones, pert nose, full lips—and it takes me a few seconds to figure out what it is: She looks a lot like me. A lot . Only like, as I said, waaaay older. I’m so relieved Harmony isn’t here right now because there would be nothing stopping her from jumping into this woman’s lap and calling her “Mama.” I almost wouldn’t blame her because as far as fakers go, this one is undoubtedly the best I’ve seen so far. Her partner—who is just average-looking, and losing his hair—is surely the brains of this operation.
    They look at each other again and laugh nervously.
    “You don’t know who we are?” the woman asks.
    “No idea,” I say.
    “We’re the Jaydens!” the husband says.
    “And these,” says the wife, framing my belly with her hands, “are our daughters!”
    The MOM alarm goes crazy.
    Bleeeeeeeep! Bleeeeeeep! Bleeeeeep!
    Zen instinctively puts his arms around my shoulders to bolster me from the blow that’s just been leveled right at me. Because if I really were carrying their daughters, I’d probably break water right now.
    But I’m not.
    Which leaves me no choice but to confront the two biggest victims of The Hotties’ scam, who I never considered victims until they were grinning right in front of me.

harmony
     
     
    THE BARN IN THE BACKYARD IS ASTIR WITH WARNINGS.
    Mooing, clucking, whinnying, bleating.
    Knock knock knock knock.
    There it is. The arrival at the front door that I’ve been waiting for.
    As I make my way down the stairs, I think about how it used to be. Before I went Wayward, I was never without the company of my prayerclique, a chaperone, or a spying housebrother . . . or ten! But now I don’t get visitors. Today’s nesting party was an exception—and look how well that turned out. I may be sought-after on the other side of the gates, but Goodside is the only place on the planet I’m guaranteed to be left in peace. The fame that attracts millions of MiNet followers is the same fame that keeps the whole settlement—even my own ma—at a distance. Oh, I still get the invitations to quilting bees and canning parties. But the chairs next to me go empty until filled by latecomers who always make an effort to arrive earlier next time. I don’t hold any ill will for them in my heart. If I were like the other girls, I’d be frightened of me too.
    I reach the front entrance and take a deep breath before opening the door to four men wearing black hats, black suits, black boots. They are the most