The final offer arrived the next morning. The amount was almost absurd. I stared at the figure on the screen, and my mother did not. She closed the laptop. I opened it. She closed it again.
"You haven't even looked."
"I don't need to."
I opened it a third time, and she put her hand flat across the screen, and we looked at each other over her fingers.
"Move your hand."
"No."
"You're not being reasonable."
"Neither are you."
"I want to talk about it."
"We did. All night."
"No," I said. "We fought."
She went still. I lowered my voice. "I don't want to fight, Mom."
"Neither do I."
"Then sit down."
She did. We were in the laboratory, because it was where we always ended up, and the room was as cold as it always was. Behind us was the secured area, and in it, behind the observation window, one container holding the one batch, the single thing everything had narrowed to. I looked at it. My mother followed my gaze.
"You see it?"
"Yes."
"That's what you want to sell."
"It's a tool."
"It's dangerous."
"It's both."
"No." She shook her head. "A tool is something you can put down."
"Then let me prove it. Give me time."
"Time to make an antidote."
"Yes."
"Before you sell."
"Yes."
She laughed softly. "That isn't proof."
"Then what is?"
"Nothing."
"That's impossible."
"Yes." She stood. "I have spent my whole life believing impossible things were worth attempting." She looked at the secured room. "This is the one thing I will not attempt."
She went to the door and keyed in the code.