In moments when Dad spoke like this, about what else was out there, Vic wondered about the people who had left him behind as an infant. What they had been like. Looked like. Did they laugh? Did they like music and tinkering for hours? Were they smart? Kind? What had made them trust Giovanni, a stranger in the middle of the woods, and who had been after them? Logic—the cold, brutal logic of a machine—dictated they were dead. They’d have returned by now if able to do so. They hadn’t.
