Lois felt the old, familiar cold trickle down her spine. "That's not possible. Morgan Edge—"

Clark materialized in the doorway, still in his flannel shirt, a smudge of tractor grease on his cheek. His face was not confused. It was pale. Haunted.

Lois looked at the recording software on her laptop. The waveform for that final second was chaotic, beautiful, and unlike anything she had ever seen.