If this is a story, it’s one with no right ending. If this is a dream, it is a dream made solid, a dream grown to a little boy with a waist and shoulders, calves that wrap around his mother’s hips. They.

But very small things could be a big deal within the very small orbits on which they spin.

To love profoundly, and be loved. To shape her own blood and body into sparkling new life. She could be home to someone, a safe and soft place in a world of ragged edges. She could teach a little boy, a little girl, how to make their way.

And good intentions? These scared him the most: people with good intentions tended not to question themselves. And people who didn’t question themselves, in the scientific world and beyond, were the ones to watch out for.

Ignacio climbed into his lap and examined his face. It was a relief to be in a child’s world, where kindness was the standard operating mode, where clarity was the order of the day, and adult posturing kept its distance. Hearings.

But no matter what, strangers never disappointed, because she expected nothing from them. It was the people she knew, who liked and even loved her, who could let her down most cruelly.

Immigrants were supposed to own things quietly. Proclaiming themselves invited the wrong kind of attention, from the evil eye to more immediate retribution. The surest sign of an immigrant business was an American flag on the door.

And good intentions? These scared him the most: people with good intentions tended not to question themselves. And people who didn't question themselves, in the scientific world and beyond, were the ones to watch out for.

This thing, growing inside and filling her breasts with promise, this thing was the same as her. It matched her better than anything or anyone she'd known.

But the uncertainty of Soli's happiness remained, a permanent raised eyebrow on the face of the great green woman she'd equated with America, the supposed mother of exiles.