Overgrowth

by Mira Grant

“Anastasia,” she breathes. “No,” says the child, because she isn’t, because she’s too fresh off the tree to understand the need for subtlety. That will come much later, if it comes at all. “The aliens came and took your real baby. They left me. I’m sorry.”

Sometimes that’s the only thing you can do: just look at the future racing toward you, and smile, and hope it doesn’t hurt when it arrives.