One (One Universe)

out.
    The cover page reads: “Testing Group (in order of age): Merrin Grey, Britton Murdock, Matthew Grimm, Helen Summers, Addison Parker, Daniel Suresh, Erik Prince, Sarah Danvers, Rebecca Banner, Elias VanDyne.”
    My name was highlighted — I can tell from the light gray sweep over it — but all I can see is the names that surround it: Sarah Danvers, a One who I heard, when she was young, could stretch her body but not control it or bring it back into shape once she did; Britton Murdock, whose amplified hearing went so out of control, drove her so crazy, they say she drowned herself when she was eight. Daniel. Leni. Elias.
    I flip to the next page, and my heart races. I can’t tear my eyes away from the chart headed, “Subject: Merrin Grey — 5 years old — Spontaneous lightness of body.” The words “transfer of powers” are underlined three times. There is a subparagraph that says, “Testing will attempt to enable transfer of powers to independently animate subjects.”
    Humans. They wanted me to try to make people go light as well as apples.
    The top of the sheet right below mine reads, “Subject: Elias VanDyne.” There’s a picture of a tall, scrawny little boy, tufts of hair poking up every which way, thick-rimmed glasses, mouth half-curved up in a grin. Dimples. My Elias, eleven years ago. Happy.
    I flip the page again. A lump forms in my throat when I read the classification behind the name: “Subject -— Helen Summers — 6 years old — Regeneration.” I shake my head — this has to be a mistake. Indestructible is what Leni is not.
    Then, from all the way in the back of the file, out falls a contact sheet of photographs. It’s marked: “Testing Overseer: Katherine Grey.” I gasp at what I see next.
    A time-lapse photo of a limp, sleeping, kindergarten-aged Leni going from sliced on the forearm to completely healed in — I add up the seconds — a minute and a half. And that’s just for a little kid.
    Maybe this isn’t the same Helen Summers — this can’t be our Leni — although the flaming hair and pale skin splashed with freckles is too much of a coincidence. But something about this must be wrong. Leni’s not indestructable. At least, not without Daniel. On her own, she’s only combustible. Pretty rare power, actually. The only other person I know that can do that is…
    Mom. Mom’s combustible. But she never burns. Another picture drops out. Mom with Leni sitting on her lap, Leni’s fragile arms slung around her neck, her face nuzzling into Mom’s. Happy. Relaxed. Mom smiles, too, if a bit more distantly. I wonder, with an ache, if there are any pictures of Mom and me at that age doing something like this.
    My heart pains when I remember — Leni lost her mom around this age. Probably right before this, from the way she clings to Mom in the photo.
    I can’t decide whether to be most horrified that Mom was the one who tested Leni; that the Hub sedated a six-year-old girl and sliced up her arms to see how fast they could get her to heal; or — possibly the craziest part of this whole thing — Leni used to be indestructible. No mention of the combustibility. Now, she’s combustible with no sign of the indestructibility.
    What did they do to her? And how much did Mom have to do with it? Is it possible — even theoretically — that she could have swapped powers with Mom?
    My stomach turns, realizing I’m about to see Leni again. Can I ever look at her the same way again, knowing what I know? Does she remember any of it? Does she know the woman who comforted her is my mother?
    I slam the lid of the box down and haul myself off the floor. I balance myself on the seat of the folding chair again and shove the box back to the spot where I found it. With one last look at the house, which two days ago felt so full and now couldn’t be more empty, I duck out the front door, closing it softly behind me.
    I jog down the street toward the intersection I know Leni and Daniel will pass on the way to the house.
    Over the decades-old suburban rooftops, the sun finally begins to rise over Nebraska. The pink clouds sprawling out against a deep purple expanse reflect in a neighborhood’s worth of solar panels, giving the illusion that they’re just within my reach.
    Daniel’s car turns the corner. “Where are we going?” His voice slices through the air, sharp and fast, as the driver’s side window rolls down.
    “The Hub,” I say, scooting into the back seat and clicking my