There were dozens of theories about what it was, that dome. Every scientist in the world, it seemed, had made a pilgrimage to the site. Tests had been conducted, measurements taken.
They had tried drilling through it. Under it. Had flown over it. Had dug beneath it. Had approached it by submarine.
Nothing worked.
Every species of doomsayer from Luddite to End Times nut had had his say. It was a judgment. On America’s technological obsession, on America’s moral failure. This. That. Something else.
Then the twins had popped out. Just like that. First Emma. Then, a few minutes later, Anna. Alive and well at the exact moment of their fifteenth birthday.
They told tales of life inside the bowl. What they called the FAYZ.
Connie Temple’s heart had swelled with pride for what she had learned of her son, Sam. And crashed into despair with tales of her other son, her unacknowledged child, Caine.
Then, nothing. No other kids arrived for a while.
Black despair settled over the families as they realized that it would be only these two. Months passed. Many lost faith. How could kids survive alone?
But then, the Prophetess had reached into their dreams.
One night Connie Temple had a lurid, incredible dream. She’d never had such a detailed dream. It was terrifying. The power of it took her breath away. There was a girl in that dream.
This girl spoke to her in the dream. It’s a dream, the girl said.
Yes, just a dream, Connie had answered.
Not just a dream. Never say “just” a dream, the girl had corrected. A dream is a window to another reality.
Who are you? Connie had asked.
My name is Orsay. I know your son.
Connie had been about to say, Which one? But some instinct stopped her. The girl did not look dangerous. She looked hungry.
Do you have a message for Sam? the girl asked.
Yes, Connie said. Tell him to let them go.
Let them go.
Let them go off into the red sunset.

Michael Grant