The psychologist stood in the corner of the room.
She was no longer taking part in the discussion.
She simply watched Aurora through the window.
Weeks.
It had been weeks since that girl had appeared.
The town was still talking about her.
So were the newspapers.
Apparition.
Miracle.
Alien.
Threat.
Saint.
Anomaly.
Every newspaper had a different word for her.
But to the psychologist, there was one word no news report seemed to use.
Girl.
She had a daughter almost the same age as Aurora.
At that hour, she was probably already home.
Perhaps her husband had picked her up from school.
Perhaps they were having dinner.
Perhaps her daughter was complaining about something that had happened that day.
She thought about how strange it all was.
One teenager was walking home after school.
An utterly ordinary routine.
And another teenager, the same age, was trapped in the middle of a forest surrounded by soldiers, scientists, cameras, and journalists.
Although no one could say that Aurora was truly trapped.
She had never tried to leave.
She had never asked to leave.
She had never shown fear.
She had never attacked anyone.
The medical tests offered no help, either.
Her body was human.
Her tissues were human.
Her blood was human.
Her hair was human.
When several strands had been collected for analysis, nothing extraordinary had been found.
Nothing.
It was just hair.
Her skin was human.
Her body was human.
Her organs were functioning.
The tests showed no diseases.
No known abnormalities.
No explanation.
Even so, the military continued to treat Aurora as a potential threat.
Not because she had done anything.
But because no one knew what she might be capable of.
The psychologist looked out the window again.
Aurora was there.
Still.
Floating.
Watching.
She seemed calm.
She even seemed bored.
The psychologist felt a sadness she couldn't explain.
Aurora was fine.
That was what the tests said.
But something about her seemed profoundly wrong.
Not because she was ill.
Perhaps because she was too fine.
A girl in that situation should have been frightened.
She should have been asking where she was.
She should have been asking for her mother.
She should have wanted to go home.
Aurora did none of those things.
She simply watched.
The psychologist glanced at the clock.
10:03 p.m.
Her shift was already over.
She picked up her coat.
A researcher asked:
— Are you leaving?
— Yes.
— Tomorrow?
— In the morning.
She put a few things in her bag.
Before leaving, she looked through the window one last time.
Aurora was still in the same place.
The psychologist watched her for a few seconds.
She thought about her own daughter.
Then she left.
Outside, soldiers remained stationed around the forest.
Floodlights illuminated the trees.
Equipment ran throughout the night.
Cameras continued recording every movement.
And Aurora remained there.
They had been unable to take her to a hospital.
They had been unable to take her to a military base.
They had been unable to place her inside a capsule.
They had been unable to remove her from that forest.
Not because she was fighting.
Not because she was running away.
Simply because, in some way no one understood, Aurora remained exactly where she was.
The psychologist got into her car.
She needed to go home.
She needed to see her daughter.
Meanwhile, behind the barricades, Aurora continued watching the world.
As if she were waiting for someone to finally understand something.
Or as if she weren't waiting for anything at all.
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