I could swear those two eyes, white balloons trailing unconnected nerve endings, I could swear they’re real. They look exactly as if they’re suspended in clear liquid. The veins and arteries going to and from the eye are attached to a plastic tube that pulsates gently at the rhythm of a human heart.

“Disgusting,” Aislin pronounces.

“But cool,” I say.

Aislin’s phone beeps and she checks the message. “Maddox,” she says, in a tone that’s both elated and apologetic. It’s the special voice she reserves for dumping me. “Sorry, I gotta go.”

“No!” I cry, grabbing her arm with my good hand. “You just got here!”

“He’s freaked about something or other.” Aislin stands and stretches. “You know how he gets.”

Yes. I do know. And I really can’t stand the guy sometimes. But I know enough not to say what I’m thinking.

“Look, it’s the weekend. I can come by tomorrow and play.”

“Okay,” I pout. “But if I get to the good stuff on my guy, I’m doing it without you.” I sigh. I don’t want to be lonely again. “You want the limo to drive you back to town?”

“Nah. Maddox is picking me up. I’m good.” Aislin leans down and hugs me. “I love you, you know.”

“Me, too.”

“Want a push back to your room?”

I gaze at the huge blue eyes hovering before me like twin earths. “I think I’ll stay awhile. I’m kind of getting into this.”

Aislin pauses at the door. “Know what?”

“What?”

“I’m really glad you’re okay.” She waves at the floating eyes. “Bye, Mr. Eyeballs.”

Aislin’s almost out the door when she pauses. “He needs a name, E.V.” She purses her lips. “Well, duh,” she says, snapping her fingers. “Bye, Adam,” she calls, and then she’s gone.

Adam. I guess if you’re going to create a man, you pretty much have to call him Adam.

I don’t really like the name, though. All my life I’ve insisted that people call me “Evening” or “E.V.,” anything but “Eve.” Eve leads inevitably to Adam and Eve, and that leads to forbidden fruit and the whole nudity thing. When you’re in middle school that entire conversation tends to go off the rails.

I wonder if Adam here, Mr. Eyeballs, would object to being called Adam on those same grounds. It feels hypocritical of me to acquiesce to “Adam” just because my unimaginative mother came up with “Eve.”

I could call him Ad for short. Or Dam.

Or Steve, for that matter.

“What do you—”

“Ahhh!” I jump about an inch out of my wheelchair. I brace for the wave of pain that should come from such a sudden movement, but my leg does not cry out in protest.

Thank God for the pain meds.

It’s Solo, pushing some kind of cart. How long has he been standing behind me?

“Hey,” I mutter. “Don’t you knock?”

“No door,” he points out accurately.

“Well, give me some sign that you’re sneaking up on me! Clear your throat or something!”

“Ahem,” he says, clearing his throat. He pushes the cart close to me. “Eyes, huh?” he asks, looking past me at the disembodied eyeballs.

“Yes.” I want to follow up with something sarcastic, but I draw a blank because I’ve turned to look at him and I notice now, how could I not notice, that the eyes I’ve created from scratch are Solo’s eyes.

“What’s that color called?” he asks.

“Just … I … I’m changing it. I was trying for blue.”

“You like blue eyes, huh?”

“Yes. I do. I like blue eyes.”

“I thought you might want something to eat.” He takes a paper sack off the cart.

“Kind of late for lunch, isn’t it?” The clock in the corner of the display reads 03:17 P.M. “How do you know I didn’t already eat lunch?” I ask, just as my stomach growls loudly.

“Intuition,” he says with a straight face.

I save my work on Adam and log out.

“Come on, we don’t want to eat in here,” Solo says. Without waiting for my approval, he plops the bag of food on my lap and takes the grips of my wheelchair.

“What about your cart?”

He shrugs. “What about it?”

We go down a level, through a hallway, across yet another open space full of grown-up toys for the Big Brains, and out onto a vast deck overlooking the bay. It’s not the million-dollar view you might get in Tiburon, which faces the city, but it’s not bad. The fog has lifted, and we have a good view of the Richmond–San Rafael Bridge. There’s a tanker riding low, slowly cutting through the water like a migrating whale. If I could somehow look around the corner past Angel Island, I’d be able to see the city. And it bugs me that I can’t. I miss my home, my school, my city.

There’s a group of four, kind of glum, munching at a table twenty yards away, too far for us to overhear them. We spread the food out on a picnic table. Sandwiches, chips, two puddings, one chocolate, one vanilla.

“From the cafeteria?” I ask, pulling one of the sandwiches apart to find turkey and Brie.

“They’re good,” Solo says. “Say one thing for your mom: She takes care of her employees.”

“Yes, I noticed. You know what they don’t have? Double-double, animal style.”