The whispers grow so loud that even Reagan Tam hears them. She hovers in the hall as her cook tells the new maid that it was a brother and sister who retrieved the lost Miranda transmission; the girl, she says, is special (she says the words like a prayer). At a charity function an acquaintance leans close and says, “A friend of a friend told me they’re from Osiris originally, can you believe that? And from a good family. Of course, I think the whole thing is a hoax, but, if it were true…” One of Simon’s doctor friends stops by the house and asks her, “Have you heard anything?” as if she could hear from her dead children. “What exactly do you mean?” Reagan asks, but the boy frowns, shakes his head quickly, mutters apologies. “I’m sorry, I thought maybe… I heard… I’m so sorry to bother you Mrs. Tam.” She offers him tea, and wants to touch his hand, his hair, but he leaves so quickly.

She was told there had been an accident. The school notified them. Simon, who had been acting so strangely, went to visit River. He left the hospital with no warning, it wasn’t like him at all, but then he loved his sister, missed her. They had taken a flyer out for the afternoon, to spend some time alone. One of River’s teachers called to convey the news. She was red-eyed, and spoke very slowly. “There are no words for this kind of tragedy,” she said. Reagan had not been listening then. Reagan had not listened for a long time, after.

But Reagan listens now, to the things people say and the things they do not say. When she was young, and moved more quickly, she used to have much better hearing. Whispers reached her with no breath behind them. The first time she met Gabriel, for instance, he had looked at the floor and said something idiotic, but she heard his heart beating faster inside his chest. Sometime in the years between then and now, she had forgotten how to hear. It was too difficult, knowing other people’s secrets. “Your responsibility is to us now,” Gabriel said, his hand on her swelling stomach