**I Came Home Early With Cinnamon Rolls and Found My 12-Year-Old Daughter on Her Knees Scrubbing the Floor While My Wife Drank Wine With Her Friends—Then Her English Teacher Stood Up and Exposed a Lie That Made My Wife Turn Pale.**

"No," Clara said. "No, you don't get to meet me and die."

Jonas and Evelyn were already moving. Jonas connected the room's emergency equipment while Evelyn pulled an oxygen mask from the wall. Clara stayed beside Mara, one hand pressed to the girl's cold wrist.

They were strangers wearing the same face. Clara felt the absurd urge to apologize for all twenty-two stolen years.

"The room blocks the remote signal," Jonas said, studying the display. "The command reached her just before she got inside."

"Then fix it," Clara said.

"I'm trying."

A long, terrible pause passed. Then the monitor chirped once. Again. A weak rhythm returned.

Mara opened her eyes, confused. "Why are you crying?"

"I'm not," Clara lied.

"You really do look like me."

"I think you look like me."

Mara tried to smile. It hurt. "Victoria said you'd cut my throat to take my place."

Clara looked at the bruise around Mara's neck. "Did she ever let you go to school? Have friends?"

"Tutors. Guards. A room with windows that wouldn't open."

"That's not a childhood."

"It's the only one I got."

For a moment, neither had anything to say. Then Mara held out her hand. Clara took it.

Across the room, Evelyn turned away to hide her tears. Jonas watched his daughters touch for the first time, his face breaking under the weight of it.

A loudspeaker clicked.

"That's sweet," Victoria said. "You found each other."

Jonas reached to shut it off, but Victoria continued.

"Mara, darling, you know what happens when you leave the protected room. And Clara, you have exactly eighteen minutes before I flood that chamber with fire suppressant."

The screen beside them flashed a new instruction.