I'm careful when I lay the ring in his trembling, upturned palm; as much as instinct is telling me he'd never drop anything so precious, he looks like he's about ready to just pitch over.

"It's, um," I begin, and clear my throat again. "It's ashes."

Which is just about the worst thing I could imagine aside from a head in a box, but does it really mean anything? Here, in this place, where we might, maybe, all just be clones even if I hate thinking about that damned bunker and everything that comes with it?

What if it's just trolling? All you have to do is look around to know the people in charge can have a sick sense of humor. Hell, just look at me.

"Tony, it's— They might not be hers. They screw with people, we all know that."