ORIGIN

TWO

I wake the next morning to thunder.

Above me, the branches of the trees shudder in a strong wind, and every few seconds lightning flares over them, like hot white branches of some larger, celestial tree. The thunder is so deep I feel it in my ribcage.

For a moment, I just lie in bed and stare. I love thunderstorms. I love the raw, unpredictable power shattering the air, shaking the jungle, searing the boundary between earth and sky. The lightning fills my room with bursts of light, making my pale skin seem even whiter. Outside, the vines of lianas in the trees thrash like snakes.

After several minutes, I drag myself from bed and yawn my way into the bathroom. As I brush my teeth, the lights above my mirror flicker. The storm must be interfering with the power, but I ignore it. It seems like every other thunderstorm that rolls overhead knocks the power out for fifteen minutes or so, before Clarence gets the backup generators running. There’s a flashlight in my sock drawer just in case, but it’s light enough outside that I won’t need it.

After showering and dressing, I jog to the dining hall and snag a bagel and a banana from the kitchen. It’s not raining yet, but judging by the thickness of the clouds, it won’t be long off. I clamp the bagel between my teeth as I peel the banana and head for the gym. There’s time for a couple of miles on the treadmill before my lessons with Uncle Antonio.

Uncle Antonio’s main job is my education. We alternate subjects every day, according to a curriculum Uncle Paolo writes out. Yesterday, after the Wickham test, was mathematics (we studied combinatorics—easy). Today is microbiology. Tomorrow could be botany, biomedics, zoology, genetics, or any of the various fields represented by the residents of Little Cam. Uncle Antonio really only tutors me half of the time. The rest of my studies are done under the scientists themselves, with Uncle Antonio monitoring my progress and reporting it to Uncle Paolo at the end of each week.

The gym is empty when I arrive. As I run, the slap of my sneakers and the hum of the treadmill echoing in the deserted room, I try not to think about yesterday’s experiment. Mother told me after the last Wickham test that the best thing to do is just to move on. Force the mind to look forward and not backward.

To keep my mind from slipping into the past, I mentally run through the day’s schedule. Two hours with Uncle Antonio. Lunch. Five more hours of studying. Dinner. Painting with Uncle Smithy. Run a few more miles. Swim. Read. Sleep.

It’s a wonder I fit everything in, but even if I had free time, Uncle Paolo would be sure to fill it in with something. He says the mind is a muscle like any other, and letting it sit unused will make it weak and slow. There’s plenty to do in Little Cam. There’s the gym, the pool, the library filled with science and math books, the lounge with games like chess and backgammon. There’s usually some kind of interesting experiment being conducted in one lab or another, and the scientists always let me drop in and watch or even help. And there’s the menagerie of animals that are constantly in need of feeding, grooming, exercise, and attention.

The lights flicker again, and the belt of the treadmill jerks. Anticipating it, I slow down, then speed up once the electricity settles again and the belt resumes its steady roll.

I glance at the screen on the treadmill. Twelve miles. Not bad for half an hour, though I usually go faster. I hit the stop button, and, instead of waiting for the belt to slow, I vault over the handrail and land lightly on the tile floor. I wipe away the few beads of sweat that are on my brow and head outside. Rain begins to fall as I jog to my room, but I make it indoors before my clothes get soaked.

As I wait for Uncle Antonio, I start pruning my orchids. I have ten different species of them, each one specially cultivated for me by Uncle Paolo, who likes to dabble in botany in his spare time. One of th