He looked a little bereft. I think he kind of liked having an actual patient. Especially one he knew he could cure.

“Where’s Scruffy McMuscles?” Aislin asks, as we settle into my workstation. “You said he’s working the coffee cart, right? I could use some caffeine. Or some other kind of stimulation.” She attempts a leer, but it clearly hurts too much to pull off.

“I haven’t seen him.”

“Then I guess we’ll have to make do with Adam.” Aislin scratches her nose. “These stitches are driving me nuts.”

“Yeah, I know how that goes.”

“How would you know, Bionic Woman?” Aislin asks.

She’s teasing, but I give her a sharp look.

“Too soon? Sorry.” She pats my shoulder. “Back to work. Let’s finish my fantasy man.”

Adam is now a handsome head full of dark hair that floats in the simulated liquid of his environment.

It turns out the software has an interesting feature I hadn’t noticed before. Not only can you age your creation up or down, you can adjust for lifestyle.

For the next hour, Aislin and I play with shoulders, chest, belly. We use slide bars to show the effects of our random choices. More or less appetite? More or less exercise? It’s a useful lesson in the limits of genetics.

Adam has the genes for a ripped chest and six-pack abs. But if we give him too much of a sweet tooth and too little restless energy, his stomach balloons.

“Let’s see what happens if he totally lets himself go,” I suggest.

I slide a bar, and suddenly Adam has man boobs.

“His are bigger than yours!” Aislin squeals.

I slide the bar back. Quickly.

I make a mental note: When I’m putting finishing tweaks on his brain, I need to remember that a little hyperactivity might not be a bad thing. Maybe some bundle of genes that will make him crave the outdoors.

He needs to mountain bike. Play tennis. Something aerobic.

Maybe he could be a runner, like I am.

Aislin ogles Adam as he floats in midair like a ghostly Adonis. In the corner of the room, two secretaries whisper and giggle. Someone provides a wolf whistle.

“I think it’s time to face facts,” Aislin says. “Boy parts are on the menu.”

“We haven’t done the legs yet.”

“Oh, I get it. We’re going to kind of close in. Come at it from all other directions first. Leave the best for last.” She elbows me. “Sort of the story of your love life, isn’t it? Leaving the best for last. Or at least for much later.”

“There’s no rush to—”

“Or even much, much later, poor baby.”

“Legs!” I yell the word. I don’t mean to yell the word. I just do.

“Fine, legs,” Aislin concedes. “Short and stumpy?”

“No,” I say. “Although we can try them out. I mean, what am I doing here? Eliminating every imperfection?”

“Well, duh.”

“But who’s to say what’s perfect?”

Aislin shrugs like it’s a stupid question. Maybe it is. But I’d rather debate philosophical questions than sit here with my best friend and design things I’ve never actually, you know … seen. Except in diagrams in health class. And the occasional Google image by accident.

“Really, Aislin. Everybody’s messed up in their own unique way, right? Nobody’s perfect.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes,” I insist.

“Right. This from the girl who wouldn’t let Finnian Lenzer ask her out because his hair was too blond?”

“He’s practically an albino,” I say. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

“’Toine Talbert was too short. And John Hanover was too thin. And Lorenzo whose last name I forget had a funny face. And you blew off Carol because you’re not a lesbian.”

“That’s not exactly my fault,” I say.

“What did you expect Carol to think? You kept saying no to boys. Naturally she was going to think you played for her team.”

“I’m not attracted to girls.”

“But you are attracted to boys?”

“You know I am!”

“In theory. Not so much in reality.”

“I’m selective.”

“You said you couldn’t go out with Tad. Why?”

I mumble something.

Aislin cups a hand to her ear. “What was that, now? You couldn’t go out with Tad because…?”

“Because his name is Tad!” I yell in frustration. “How can I date a guy named Tad? It’s a ridiculous name.”

“Also Chet.”

“Chet? I’m going to date a guy named Chet? What is this, 1952? No one’s named Chet.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“I have legs to make,” I say frostily.

“Make them short and bowed,” Aislin says.

“You know I’m not going to do that.”

“Oh, I know that,” she says, triumphant. “You’re going to make them long and muscular. You’re going to slide the lifestyle bar all the way over to track star.”

“Am not.”

But of course in the end that’s exactly what I do. Adam gets long legs. And muscular thighs. And well-developed calves.

He is now three disconnected bits. Leg. Leg. Torso and head.

There is, shall we say, a certain empty space in between those three pieces.