Selah watched Dessa’s back as her mother glided towards the front door, a polite smile already forming. Bram, who had been talking to Mr. Finch about the chipped paint on his fence, froze, his face losing its color as the fed's words finally registered. The man in the dark suit, broad-shouldered and sharp-eyed, seemed to fill their entire porch. His gaze swept over the small cottage, lingering briefly on the ‘For Sale’ sign across the street, before settling on Bram.
“Mr. Atherton?” The investigator's voice was calm, but the authority behind it was absolute. “May I come in? This won’t take long.”
Bram stammered, his eyes darting to Selah, still strapped into her buggy by the park lot’s edge. He’d just brought a handful of their first functional pager prototypes home from the garage-turned-workshop, tucked carefully into his old lunchbox, which now sat open on the tray, right beside Selah’s favorite chew toy. The tiny devices, no bigger than a matchbox, blinked with experimental green lights, marking their nascent tech empire.
Selah’s six-month-old heart went cold. *No. Not now. Not when we’re so close.* The prototypes represented everything: the lottery win, the long nights Bram spent soldering, Dessa’s meticulous account books. They were their future, their escape from the grinding poverty that had almost claimed Bram’s life. If the FBI confiscated them, citing some vague ‘investigation’ into Vance, it would be over before it even began. They couldn’t afford another setback.
Her gaze locked onto the lunchbox. The agent’s eyes flickered towards it, a flicker of professional curiosity. *He’s seen them.* Selah’s mind raced. What could she do? She was a baby, trapped in a harness, unable to speak, unable to move. But she was not helpless.
With a furious grunt, Selah began to thrash. Her small, chubby hand shot out, not for the blinking pagers, but for the soiled nappy satchel slung over the carriage handle. It smelled faintly of banana mush and something far less pleasant. A single, desperate thought spurred her: *Hide them. Now.*
Her flailing was convincing. Her legs kicked, her arms windmilled, and a wail, sharp and piercing, ripped from her tiny throat. Dessa, turning from the agent, gasped. “Oh, Selah-bug! What’s wrong?”
Seizing the moment, Selah leaned precariously over the open lunchbox. Her fingers, sticky with drool, closed around the smooth plastic of the pagers. One. Two. Three. She yanked them out, her tiny muscles straining, then, with a mighty heave, stuffed them deep into the murky depths of the canvas tote, burying them beneath a crumpled burp cloth and a half-eaten teething biscuit.
The visitor watched with a neutral expression as Selah’s tantrum continued, then finally, with a sigh, turned back to Bram. “Mr. Atherton, if we could just have a moment inside?”
Bram, flustered, nodded, ushering the agent into the modest living room. Dessa, still fretting over Selah, scooped up the canvas satchel. “Honestly, sometimes I think she knows exactly how to get attention,” she murmured, patting Selah’s back. Selah, exhausted but triumphant, finally quieted, a tiny, self-satisfied smirk playing on her lips.
The questioning was brief but chilling. Sterling was polite, almost deferential, but his inquiries were pointed. He asked about Percival Vance’s background, his sudden generosity, the specifics of ‘Stanton Connect’s’ formation. Bram, guileless and open, answered truthfully, his brow furrowed with confusion. Dessa, meanwhile, tried to entertain Selah, unaware of the gravity of the conversation.
“Look, honey, your blinking toys!” Dessa cooed, pulling the pagers from the canvas kit. “Officer, aren’t these clever? Bram made them for Selah to learn her colors and counting! See, green means go, red means stop…” She held one up, pressing the tiny button. The pager blinked a rapid green, then a slow red. Selah nearly choked on her pacifier. *My telecommunications empire is being passed off as a glorified abacus!* The agent gave a tight, almost imperceptible smile. “Very educational, ma'am,” he said, his eyes betraying nothing.
After thirty agonizing minutes, the investigator rose. “Thank you for your time, folks. We may be in touch.” He offered a curt nod, then was gone, his dark suit disappearing around the corner of the house.
Bram sank onto the sofa, running a hand through his hair. “FBI… Vance? What in the world is going on?”
Selah, however, felt a different kind of dread. A familiar, twisting ache began deep in her gut, a low thrum that quickly escalated into a searing inferno. Her ‘paradox sickness’ was back, worse than ever. Every nerve ending screamed. Her vision blurred, and a cold sweat broke out on her forehead. *I changed too much. I saved Dad, I won the lottery, I saved the prototypes… the universe is pushing back.* It felt like a thousand tiny needles piercing her stomach, each one a reminder of the karmic debt she was accumulating. The pain was so intense, so all-consuming, that a red haze descended over her mind. Rational thought vanished, replaced by primal, infantile fury.
Later that evening, Vance arrived, jovial as ever, carrying a small, wrapped gift. “Just a little something for my favorite little business partner,” he chuckled, ruffling Selah’s hair. He sat at the kitchen table, spreading out a stack of crisp, official-looking documents. Dessa was making coffee, her back to them. Bram, still shaken from the FBI visit, sat across from Vance, looking perplexed.
Selah, strapped into her high chair, watched Vance through a haze of pain and rage. He was too close. Too smug. The throbbing in her gut intensified with every rustle of the papers. The pain was so overwhelming that her usual control snapped. She didn’t think. She reacted. Her gums burned with raw pressure. Her eyes fixed on the man’s ankle, conveniently exposed by the rise of his pant leg. With a snarl that was more animalistic than baby, Selah launched herself forward, sinking her two newly emerged bottom teeth deep into the fleshy part of Vance’s ankle.
Vance yelped, a strangled sound, and snatched his leg back. “Blast it all, Selah!” he snapped, his jovial mask slipping entirely. He glared at her, his eyes narrowed into cold, hard slits. Then, regaining his composure, he leaned down, his voice a low, venomous whisper only she could hear. “You’re a clever one, aren’t you, little miss? But even the cleverest babes can’t outsmart a truly patient man. Remember that.”
Selah stared back, defiance burning in her eyes, even as the paradox sickness ebbed, leaving her weak and trembling. Her gaze dropped to Vance’s pocket. The inside flap of his expensive wool jacket hung slightly open. Tucked within, barely visible, was a sheaf of papers. One document, half-unfurled, caught her attention. It was a bank form, the kind for opening a new account. And at the bottom, scrawled in a shaky imitation, was Bram’s signature. It wasn’t just a new account. It was a *transfer* form. To Apex Link Holdings. And the sum listed was far more than their lottery winnings, far more than anything they’d ever seen.
He wasn’t just stealing their money. He was putting Bram’s name on a paper that would implicate him in something far bigger, something that would destroy them all. A cold dread, far worse than any paradox sickness, settled over Selah. This wasn’t just a mentor. This was a wolf, and he was ready to sign her father’s life away.