By morning, the lab was a crime scene. The researcher’s log was found open to a single new entry, timestamped 3:14 a.m.:

But the techs just called her Lucky.

He missed what was obvious. Lucky wasn’t broken. She was full.

The lobby’s glass doors had been shattered from the inside. Rain slanted in. She sat at the threshold, looked back once at the long hallway of bad memory, and then stepped into the wet March dark.

No one caught Lucky. She appears now and then on loading docks, in cemetery gardens, outside the windows of children who cry in their sleep. If you see a black cat with penny-colored eyes, do not try to pet her. Do not call her.