I found my husband’s body first. Still in his pod. Frozen in a silent scream. I swallowed the lump in my throat. Then I turned to the other pods.

Your lips are moving, but I can’t hear the words. You’re screaming something about Shaun. The glass of the pod is fogging up from your breath. No—wait. That’s not your breath. That’s frost. Because you’re not in the pod anymore. You’re outside it, looking in.

And froze.

He tilted his head. Then he trotted past me and started barking at the air three feet to my left.

Below it, in smaller text: Note: You are currently observing from Camera A. Camera B’s biometrics show: pulse 0 bpm. Core temperature: 32°F. However, retinal scan indicates active observation. It is watching you back. Dogmeat whined. Then, slowly, he stopped barking at the empty space and looked directly into my eyes. Not at me. Into me. As if my pupils were windows, and on the other side of the glass, something was finally home.

A hand on my shoulder. Cold. Weightless. And a voice—my own voice—whispering from behind my own teeth:

I punched the emergency release. The pod hissed open. Cold vapor spilled out, and the body slumped forward, held upright only by the restraints. Its eyes were open. Glassy. Dead.

“Hey, boy,” I whispered.

No. Not the air. He was barking at something behind me. Something I couldn’t see without turning around.

Not at me.

“But I’m wearing one,” I said aloud, my voice thin. I touched my left hand. The ring was there. Warm. Solid. I looked at the corpse’s hand. Its ring was there too. Cold. Tarnished.

Nora. Right. I was Nora. Lawyer. Mother. Wife. And now, apparently, a wasteland archeologist with a laser musket.

Locate your body.

Dogmeat started to growl.

And you realize: you never left.