Mark, her husband, was the firm's resident philosopher-geneticista rarefied thinker with a playful smile and an encyclopedic knowledge of CRISPR's ethical tangles. Together, they had anticipated the birth of their son as they would the next step in their own evolutionary experiment: With preparation, precision, and a dash of nervous glee.
Noah Carter arrived, red-faced and wriggling, beneath the humming glow of birthing suite lights. The nurses clapped, Mark wept, and Emily laughed so hard she nearly dropped the newborn. He was, by all measures, perfect: ten fingers, ten toes, a shock of black hair so thick the midwife joked about a prenatal barbershop. Their little miracle.
It wasn't until a month later, during a routine pediatric checkup at their company's on-site clinic, that the world split along an invisible fault line.
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