In the After

bring back a few post-aps.” He explained to me that although New Hope had been a university, it was affiliated with Hutsen-Prime, a government-funded research facility. Researchers lived on the complex with their families, and along with the university campus, it was its own little town.
    “Are there other Class Five post-aps?” I asked.
    “Yes, but most don’t integrate very well,” he admitted, gathering up my papers and organizing them. “We’ve learned that the recovered post-aps who were teenagers in pre-ap times have a hard time fitting in. The small children don’t remember how it was and most of the adults are just happy to be alive. People your age . . . they want things to be the way they were.”
    “I can relate,” I told him. “What happens if a kid doesn’t play well with others?” There had to be a couple of troublemakers.
    “Well, it depends. Children aren’t really punished, except with extra chores. The kids like to call it Dusty Duty.” He chuckled at the silly term. “But honestly, if you need extra help coping, you’re admitted to the Ward.”
    I thought of Rice’s strange warning. “What is the Ward, exactly?”
    “It’s where citizens can go to get the help they need,” he explained automatically. “Some people just can’t learn to live in a Florae-filled world, even though they’re perfectly safe here. They need intensive psychological treatment. The Ward is where they live until they can get better. In extreme cases, troublemakers are expelled, but that doesn’t happen very often.”
    “What does someone do after they’re expelled?” I asked.
    Dr. Samuels looked confused. “They do whatever they want, I suppose.” He stood. “Let me grade this and get back to you. . . . Can you hold tight here?”
    “Sure . . .” I grabbed a copy of Alice in Wonderland from the bookshelf, but was too nervous to focus. I kept reading the same paragraph over and over. Finally I shut the book and tapped my fingers on the desk, waiting.
    • • •
    An older man with a silly, yellow bowtie sits across from me. I’ve been given papers, a pencil, and a clipboard on which to write. I’ve never been able to write in my room before and I’m pleased. I begin to doodle on the paper, drawing cubes and circles .
    “Now, we’re going to test your basic abilities. Verbal, written, math and science, and potentiality.”
    “Potentiality?” I ask. This term seems familiar. “Have I done this before? Do I know you?”
    The older man nods his head. “Yes, Amy, we’ve met previously. I’m Dr. Samuels. Now, try to concentrate.”
    I stare at the papers. “I’ve done this. . . . I remember you.” I look up at him. “Why am I taking these tests again?”
    “We need to see how your scores have changed since your treatment has begun,” he explains slowly. “Do you understand?”
    “Yes. You’re seeing if I’m getting better?”
    He smiles kindly. “We’re making sure you’re living up to your abilities.”
    I lick my lips. “Who decides . . . if I’ve met my potential?”
    Dr. Samuels looks at me curiously. “I’ll evaluate your tests and share the results with my colleagues.”
    “Does that include my mother?” I ask hopefully .
    “No, Amy, but I can make sure she knows how you’re doing,” he offers. “If you like.”
    I nod. “Yes. Please.” I take the pencil and hold it over the papers. “I’m ready now, Dr. Samuels.”
    He punches a button on a stopwatch. “You may begin.”
    • • •
    It wasn’t long before Dr. Samuels returned and beckoned for me to follow him. “We’ve found an advanced placement class for you. Come along.” I trailed him down the hall, where he stopped at a different red door. “This is where you’ll come tomorrow,” he explained. “Advanced Theory is an unstructured program and you’ll remain here until you class out.”
    “Advanced Theory of what exactly?”
    “Anything and everything.” He opened the door. The room was big, with a few scattered desks and tables, and only a handful of students. One was scribbling in a notebook. He looked up briefly, squinted at me, and returned to his work. The others were talking, chairs arranged in a circle. They didn’t even glance over.
    “Yes, but what if cold fusion were possible?” a petite girl with long, dark brown hair was saying. “If we figure out the results of an impossibility, maybe we can find a possible replication of those results.” I was fixated on