But the box was still there. Open. And inside, nestled on the velvet, was a single gray eye.

Pandora smiled. “No. It named itself.”

And somewhere across the city, Pandora opened her own left eye—Melanie’s left eye—and smiled into the dark. The box had never been Pandora’s. It had been Melanie’s. But Pandora was the lock.

She typed back: Where are you?

“Don’t call it that,” Melanie said.