Windows like they used to have in houses when Mom and Dad were growing up. Glass ones that squeak if you lick your finger and run it down the pane, windows that smudge and streak and sparkle in the sun. Is it all safety glass?

Dad pulls into a parking space, and we get out of the HV. I balance Remi on my hip and follow Dad up a walkway lined with bright orange poppies. I don't need to check to see if they're symmetrical; I'm sure every plant is DNA-ture. I wait while Dad presses a finger to the data panel. The door swings open, and there's a receptionist at a long chrome desk. "Hello, Nadia." Dad gives her a wave and heads for the elevator.

Nadia gives a fluttery-fingered wave and tucks a lock of black hair behind her ear. Was she the woman on Dad's DataSlate that night in his office? She doesn't say anything, so I can't compare the voices.

"Want a real quick tour?" He starts down a carpeted hallway. "We've got our conference room down here." He opens a door to a lush room with a long conference table and big leather chairs. "It's the brain center, where we have all our planning and problem-solving sessions."

I step up to the big window and see that this main office isn't all of StormSafe; there are smaller buildings around the parking lot and gardens. "What's in the other buildings?"

"More offices. Some research labs and data centers."

One of the buildings, set apart, looks less modern than the others-just a squat concrete structure, almost like an old storm shelter. There's only a steel door and one window. "What about that one?"

"Nothing exciting, just storage. Come on upstairs," he says, heading back down the hallway. "I'll show you my office."

"What about the Sim Dome?" I ask.

"That's in the basement, but it's in use right now, and I don't want to interrupt."

Dad pushes the elevator button for the eighth floor, and when the bio-scanner beeps, he presses his index finger to the panel. The elevator starts to rise.

Remi reaches for the buttons with chubby hands, too little to understand why her fingers won't get us where we need to go. It needs to be Dad's fingerprint. Or a perfect imitation.

The elevator leads directly to Dad's top-floor office and lab. It's a huge, open space, every wall made of windows with a view over the land. The mahogany desk in the center of the room is an exact copy of the one I hid under in Dad's office at home, and from his chair, he has a view of any weather system approaching.

"Not bad, huh?" Dad takes Remi from my arms and gestures toward the bank of computers. "Go ahead and have a look."

I walk over to the heart of the office-no, more like the brain. Plasma monitors taller than I am grow up out of the floor alongside each workstation. One spews out a constantly scrolling screen of computer-generated weather models. Another three are Doppler radar composites, and two more seem to be live cameras trained on the surrounding landscape. One of those shows the storm Mirielle called about, way off in the distance.

"Amazing, isn't it?" Dad says, bouncing Remi. "This place never sleeps."

"People work here all night?"

"Somebody's here around the clock, and the rest of us check in from home often. This is all tied into the wireless network so it can be controlled remotely." He motions for me to take Remi. "I have to get to that meeting."

I put Remi down on the soft rug by the couch with a couple of toys, and Dad heads for the elevator.

"Will you be long?" I call after him as the door opens. "I mean . . . I wondered if she'll need to take her nap here."

Dad shakes his head. "No, I should only be about twenty minutes." He steps into the shiny silver box, and the door closes.

"Twenty minutes," I whisper to Remi, who's chewing on her toy dolphin's tail. How could that be enough time when I don't even know what I need to do?

I arrange couch cushions around Remi to make a sort of play area, and then I head for one of the lab counters. I pull the jar from my pocket and unscrew the top slowly, as if something might jump out the minute it's open. When I lift the lid, the sharp, sour smell of preservative fluid invades my nose, but even with watering eyes, I can see it suspended in the chemical broth.

My new fingerprint.

I didn't think to bring forceps or tweezers, so I reach into the container, grasp the new tissue between the fingernails of my thumb and forefinger, and pull it out. It hangs like a wet scrap of cloud.

I take a quick glance at Remi-still playing with the dolphin, but her eyelids look heavy-and then as delicately as I possibly can, I spread the new skin over the tip of the index finger on my left hand. It's so thin and elastic that it wraps right around, and when I press the edges together, they stick.

I try bending my finger, pointing, wiggling it. The new print doesn't fall off, doesn't loosen at all. It feels like part of me. Thank you, Risha.

I cross the room, sink into the plush leather chair at Dad's desk, click the login button, and wait.

"Access restricted to Dr. Stephen Meggs," the screen reads. "Provide bio-verification."

I press my finger to the bio-reader and hold my breath.

The computer beeps, and Dad's desktop menu appears. I scan the icons-satellite feeds, data streams, radar from at least eight different sites in the county. Where is the latest data for his storm research?

The antique clock on the wall ticks loudly. Eight minutes have passed. Remi has fallen asleep and is drooling all over her dolphin. I need to find whatever's here and get off this thing.

The radar, satellite, and model applications seem to be the same ones running on the other computers. But in a corner of the screen, there's a folder I didn't see on any of the screens across the room.

STORMBANK.

I click to open it and a box filled with dozens of sub-folders spills out on the screen. Each one is labeled with a set of numbers.

5-7-1840.

6-12-1899.

6-9-1953.

No, not just numbers. Dates.

I scan the list.

5-27-1896.

4-5-1936.

3-18-1925.

5-4-2007.

6-17-2010.

It goes on and on. Dated folder after dated folder inside the STORMBANK file. Does each folder have meteorological data for that particular date?

The clock ticks again. Ten minutes left.

There must be something here about the dissipation project. There has to be.

My eyes dart from file to file. Half the titles are simply project numbers. I can't begin to guess what Re-creation #129 means, so I keep looking, hoping that the right thing will catch my attention. I feel so certain the answer is here.

Remi murmurs in her sleep.

As I'm standing to check on her, the elevator rumbles to this floor and the door begins to slide open. I fly across the room and practically dive for the couch.

I sit next to Remi, my knees tucked up against me, heart pulsing in my throat.

My view of the elevator is blocked by the row of workstations, but I can still hear whoever it is stepping out into the reception area of the office.

"Stephen?" It's a woman's voice. Maybe the one from Dad's DataSlate that night, but I can't be sure.

I hold my breath. Should I answer? I haven't logged off the computer; the storm notes are there on the screen for anyone who approaches.

"Stephen!" The voice is sharper now, colder.

Is it the receptionist from downstairs? I can't just sit here and let her find me shaking. She'll wonder why I didn't answer.

"My dad's in a meeting right now," I call. I take a deep, shaky breath and get ready to face whoever it is when they come around the corner, but there's only quiet.

I wait, listening to my heart in my ears. Where did the woman go?

The clock on the wall ticks again, and I jerk my head to look. It's been sixteen minutes.

I need to log off that computer before Dad gets back.

I walk slowly around the bank of workstations, expecting the visitor woman to be waiting with more questions. But when I get to the elevator, there is no one. The door is closed and rumbling with a distant hum.

Whoever she was, she left without answering. Apparently, she was only interested in Dad.

The clock ticks. Dad could be back any second, but I can't walk away from this. Not now.

I go back to his desk and skim the pages on the screen. Most of it is over-my-head science, but in one file, the words I do understand jump out. They jump out and grab me by the throat, and shake.

Possibilities for Replication: In simulation exercises, researchers successfully recreated the atmospheric conditions that led to the June 17, 2010, EF4 tornado near Deer Creek, Minnesota, through the heating and cooling of particular features of supercell thunderstorms. In the Simulation Dome assessment, this resulted in the genesis of a tornado that would easily be classified NF4 or above.

In the first non-laboratory trial, certain atmospheric variables interfered, resulting in a smaller vortex forming and veering slightly off the intended track so that intervention was necessary to reroute. Still, damage was impressive, and with further development, more precision in both the scope of the storm and the track may be expected.

Damage was impressive?

I look at the date listed next to the words "first non-laboratory trial," and a throbbing pain shoots through my temple. 5-30-2050. That was our first day at camp. The day Risha and I had the picnic with Alex and Tomas. The day we watched from the jungle gym while the kids at the park "sang" the tornado away from the Placid Meadows fence.

When really, the magical storm songs were coming from this office.

My stomach churns with the poison of what I've learned. This makes it look like Dad isn't doing research to get rid of storms anymore. This research is focused on-no, that's impossible. Is it? I look back at the last paragraph, but my head hurts. Letters are swimming out of place, rearranging themselves, and I feel sick.

Bile rises in my throat, but I swallow it down and pull my DataSlate from my bag.

I don't wait for the clock to tick away my last minutes. I need this-all of it. I don't know yet what I can possibly do with it-I don't know yet what it all means or who I can possibly show-but I know I need it.

I jam my DataSlate connector into the port on Dad's computer.

"Transfer file command restricted to Stephen Meggs. Please provide bio-verification."

Come on, come on, I think, pressing my finger to the reader. After three failed reads, probably because I'm shaking too much to hold still, the computer beeps, my storage drive appears, and I'm able to drag the STORMBANK folder in to copy.

Remi stirs again.

The file transfer bar progresses slowly, and I curse under my breath because I can't make it zip to the end.

Remi's awake fussing, so I start across the room to pick her up, just as the elevator begins to hum.

No!

I fly back to the computer. Remi's crying, wiggling in my arms as I lean over the screen. The files are still copying.

Go. Go, GO.

Just a few more seconds.

But the elevator dings, and there are no more seconds. I pull the DataSlate from the port and ignore the error message that appears. Right now, it doesn't matter if any of the data actually transferred-I need to get off this thing before Dad comes. But it won't shut down.

I try the escape key.

The elevator dings again.

I yank the power cord from the back of the computer, and the screen puffs to black as the door slides open.

Dad steps out. "How are my girls doing?"

I stand up from the leather chair and bounce a little with Remi. I force my voice to sound calm. "We're fine. She's been fussy, so I thought she'd like spinning in your chair, but she wanted to grab everything." I glance at the black screen, praying it will reboot-and not return to the last screen I was on-when the power returns. "She unplugged your computer. Sorry."

"No problem." In four long steps, he's at the desk, putting the cord back where it goes.

The machine hums to life, and I hold my breath.

Dad turns back to me. "Ready to head home?"

I nod. Remi's quieting down in my arms, her head drooping onto my shoulder, and her rhythmic breathing helps my heart settle down, too. "Let me get my stuff."

I reach for my DataSlate and backpack to follow Dad to the elevator. Just before the door slides shut, I see Dad's computer monitor flash back to life on his desk. There is only a log-in screen.

No sign of the data I was never supposed to see.

No evidence at all that I logged in to night as Stephen Meggs.

Chapter 20.