From the Bookshelf of What's the Name of That Book???…

I’m told that the day I was born, Uncle Paolo held me against his white lab coat and whispered, “She is perfect.” Sixteen years later, they're still repeating the word. Every day I hear it, from the scientists or the guards, from my mother or from my Aunt Brigid. Perfect.

They say other things too. That there are no others like me, at least not yet. That I am the pinnacle of mankind, a goddess born of mortal flesh. You are immortal, Pia, and you are perfect, they say.

But as I follow Uncle Paolo to the laboratory, my bootlaces trailing in the mud and my hands clutching a struggling sparrow, the last thing I feel is perfect.

Outside the compound, the jungle is more restless than usual.

I may as well shackle myself to a bolt of lightning as attach myself to a mortal. The muscles in my shoulder tense, and I hunch over, face in my hands, stating but not seeing.

But oh ... the moment I looked into his blue, blue eyes ... it wasn't like shackling lightning.

It was like eating it. A bolt of electricity to my stomach.