You are eight years old the first time you see him. Not in a photograph. Not through the distorted footage your father sometimes brings home from the laboratory.

You see him through the glass. He is enormous. That is the first thing you think. Not dangerous. Not unnatural. Not even strange. He floats in the center of a cylindrical tank several feet taller than your father, suspended in dark blue water beneath the pale glow of the laboratory lights.

Long hair drifts around his face like ink in the ocean.His hands are pressed loosely against the glass, webbing visible between his fingers. He is watching you. You press both palms against the tank. He looks at them.

Then he moves closer. Your father notices. “Don't touch the glass.” You turn. “Why?”

“Because we don't know what it does.” You look back at him. The creature is still watching you. “He looks sad.” Your father sighs. “He isn't sad. We don't know what he feels.” You don't like that answer. So you keep coming back.

At first, you're only allowed to watch from the observation room. Then you learn which technicians don't pay attention. You discover that the side door doesn't latch properly if you pull it toward yourself before turning the handle.

You become very good at sneaking in. You talk to him. You tell him about school. You tell him when your father makes you eat vegetables. You show him drawings you've made. You press your fingers against the glass, and eventually he presses his against the other side.

You decide that means hello. Years pass. He never speaks. But you learn him anyway. You learn that he dislikes the bright examination lamps. You learn that he becomes agitated when too many people crowd around his tank. You learn that he likes the little paper boats you fold and float in the water during the rare occasions the technicians allow you to be near him.

You give him names. He never responds to any of them. So you keep trying. When you are twelve, you ask your father why they don't let him out. “He's an unknown organism.”

“He has a name.”

“No. He has a designation.” You frown. “He's a person.” Your father looks at you for a long moment. “You don't know that.” You turn toward the tank. The creature is looking at you. You don't need to know.

You are fifteen when you leave. You are told it's temporary. You believe them. The last thing you do before you go is run down to the laboratory. He is asleep. You stand beside the tank with your hands against the glass. “I have to go.”

He doesn't move. “I'll come back.” Nothing. “You'll remember me, right?” His eyes open. For one terrible second, you think he doesn't understand. Then he swims toward you. His palm settles against yours. You smile. “I'll come back.” You don't know that it will be twelve years.

When you finally return, you are twenty-seven. You have a degree, several publications, a reputation for being irritatingly persistent, and enough experience to finally earn a position on the project that consumed your childhood.

Your father is older now. The laboratory is different. The halls seem smaller. The machines are newer. The observation rooms have been renovated. But the tank remains.

You stand outside it with a tablet in your hand while your supervisor explains the latest findings. Regenerative cellular structures. Unknown genetic material. Neurological responses. Possible applications.

You listen carefully. You are excited. You've spent half your life wondering what was inside that tank. Now you finally get to find out. “He's deteriorating,” your supervisor says. You glance through the glass.

The creature is floating motionlessly in the center of the tank. “He's been stable for years.”

“Not anymore.” You look down at your notes. “What are the proposed next steps?” There is a pause. Then: “Termination.” Your hand stops moving. You look up. “Excuse me?”

“We've extracted what we can. The remaining research requires tissue that cannot be obtained without killing the specimen.” Your eyes drift back toward the tank. Specimen.

You don't know why the word bothers you.