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“Congratulations,” says the nurse. “It’s a boy!” Paisley beams. She’s five months pregnant and sprawled like a lump of clay on the examination table. The ultrasound machine hums and rattles, projecting a staticky image onto the nurse’s computer. “I can print off a picture or two for you, if you like,” the nurse says, gesturing to the screen. “But it might not be necessary if you want to get your ProParture chip now.” Paisley frowns. “Sorry, my what?” “Your gestation tracking chip, dear.” “Oh,” Paisley says. “I heard about those. I just didn’t realize that’s what the brand was called.”