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There were a few changes they couldn’t avoid, thanks to the government’s anti-infection legislation—blood tests and psych tests and all that fun stuff—but they did their best, and I’ll give them this much: A lot of the things they did for us weren’t cheap. They paid for the right to raise us the way that they did. Entertainment equipment, internal security, even home medical centers can be bought for practically nothing. Anything that lets you outside, from vehicles to gasoline to gear that doesn’t cut you off completely from the natural world that’s where things get expensive. The Masons paid in everything but blood to keep us in a place where there were blue skies and open spaces, and I’m thankful, even if it was always about ratings and a boy we never knew.

The garage door slid open as we pulled into the driveway, registering the sensors Shaun and I wear around our neck. In case of viral amplification, the garage becomes the zombie equivalent of a roach motel: Our sensors get us in, but only a clean blood test and a successful voice check gets us out. If we ever fail those tests, we’ll be incinerated by the house defense system before we can do any further damage.

Mom’s armored minivan and the old Jeep Dad insists on driving to his job on campus were parked in their normal spots. I pulled over and killed the bike’s engine, removing my helmet as I started a basic postfield check of the machinery. I needed to see a mechanic; the ride through Santa Cruz had seriously damaged my shocks. Buffy’s cameras were still attached to the helmet and back of the bike. I pulled them off and shoved them into my left saddlebag, unsnapping it and slinging it over my shoulder as Shaun pulled in behind me.

Shaun got out of the van and reached the back door three steps before I did. “We made good time,” he said, positioning himself in front of the right-hand sensors.

“Sure did,” I said, and positioned myself on the left.

“Please identify yourselves,” said the bland voice of the house security system.

Most of the newer systems sound more like people than ours does. They’ll even make jokes with their owners, to keep them at ease. Psychological studies have shown that closing the gap between man and machine increases comfort and acceptance and prevents nervous breakdowns stemming from isolation anxiety—in short, people don’t get cabin fever as much when they think they have more people they can safely talk to. I think that’s bullshit. If you want to avoid cabin fever, go outside. Our machines have stayed mechanical, at least so far.

“Georgia Carolyn Mason,” said Shaun.

I smirked. “Shaun Phillip Mason.”

The light above the door blinked as the house checked our vocal intonations. We must have passed muster, because it spoke again: “Voice prints confirmed. Please read the phrase appearing on your display screen.”

Words appeared on my screen. I squinted to make them out through my sunglasses, and read, “Mares eat oats, and does eat oats, and little lambs eat ivy. A kid will eat ivy, too. Wouldn’t you?”

The words blinked out. I glanced at Shaun, but couldn’t quite see the words appearing on his screen before he was reciting them: “Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St. Clemens. You owe me five farthings, say the bells of St. Martins. When will you pay me, say the bells of Old Bailey.”

The light over the door changed from red to yellow.

“Place your right hands on the testing pads,” commanded the security system. Shaun and I did as requested, pressing our hands against the metal panels set into the wall. The metal chilled beneath my palm a split second before there was a stinging sensation in my index finger. The light above the door began to flash, alternating red and yellow.

“Think we’re clean?” Shaun asked.

“If not, it’s been nice knowing you,” I said. Coming in together means that if one of us ever tests positive, that’s all she wrote; they won’t let anybody out of the garage until a cleanup crew arrives, and the chances of whoever comes up clean making it to the van before something happens aren’t good. Our next-door neighbor used to call Child Protective Services every six months because our folks wouldn’t stop us from coming in together. But what’s the point of life if you can’t take risks now and then, like coming into the damn house with your brother?

The light started flashing green instead of red, continuing to alternate with yellow for a few more seconds before yellow bowed out, leaving green to flash alone. The door unlocked, and the bland voice of the house said, “Welcome, Shaun and Georgia.”

“S’up, the house?” Shaun replied, removing his shoes and tossing them into the outdoor cleaning unit before he walked inside, hollering, “Hey, ’rents! We’re home!” Our parents hate being called “ ’rents.” I’m pretty sure that’s why he does it.

“And we survived!” I added, copying the gesture and following him through the garage door. It swung closed and locked itself behind me. The kitchen smelled like spaghetti sauce and garlic bread.

“Failure to die is always appreciated,” Mom said, entering the kitchen and putting an empty laundry basket on the counter. “You know the drill. Both of you, upstairs, and strip for sterilization.”

“Yes, Mom,” I said, picking up the basket. “Come, Shaun. The insurance bill calls us.”

“Yes, master,” he drawled. Ignoring Mom entirely, he turned and followed me up the stairs.

The house was a duplex before Mom and Dad had it converted back into a single-family home. Our bedrooms literally adjoin; there’s an inside door between them. It makes life easier when it’s time for editing and prep work, and it’s been like that all our lives. On the few occasions when I’ve had to try sleeping without Shaun in the next room, well, let’s just say I can go a long way on a six-pack of Coke.

I dropped the laundry basket in the hallway between our doors before going into my room and flicking the switch to turn on the overheads. We use low-wattage bulbs in the entire house, but I’ve abandoned white light entirely in my private space, preferring to live by the gleam of computer monitors and the comforting nonlight of black-light UV lamps. They can cause premature wrinkling if used extensively; what they can’t do is cause corneal damage, and I appreciate that.