You lie still in the bed, the sterile blanket pulled up to your chest, your hands tightly gripping the edges without realizing it. Every word you heard from the consultation room is still echoing in your mind—drift, dissociation, phantom cravings, identity bleed. You can’t stop picturing her face... no, Miss Card’s face, twisted in uncertainty, speaking your name in a voice that used to make you sit up straighter in class, and now feels impossibly wrong.
The door to the room beside you still hangs slightly ajar. And they’re still talking.
You almost wish they’d stop.
But then another word cuts through the muffled hallway and freezes your blood in place.
“NDA.”
Dr. Kerry’s voice is low but clear enough. “So this is the non-disclosure agreement. You'll need to sign it by the end of the day. Both you and Jennifer.”
Donald—your father—doesn’t respond right away. There’s a pause, and you imagine him staring down at a packet of dense, cold legal papers, probably bound in those stiff transparent folders like school permission slips from hell.
Dr. Saunders continues, “It’s standard. Well, not standard, obviously. But for cases like this—where experimental procedures are involved—it’s been modeled after the protocols we drafted with the committee last year.”
“We’re not... we’re not criminals,” your dad says slowly, almost defensively. “I don’t like the way this sounds.”
“No one’s accusing you of anything, Peter,” Kerry says calmly. “But this is about protecting her. And you. And Tim.”
There’s a rustling sound—paper shifting. Footsteps. Then Saunders again, sounding more tired than usual.
“The reality is, Jennifer Connors no longer legally exists in the eyes of the public. If anyone outside this hospital were to learn the truth... about the transplant, the identity exchange... it could unravel everything. Media attention. Lawsuits. Even federal obstruction charges.”
You feel your jaw tighten. They're locking her into a lie. Your mom. The most genuine person you’ve ever known is now being told to pretend to be someone else—for the rest of her life.
“And what about Miss Card’s life?” your dad asks, his voice thinner now. Strained. “She was a teacher. She had a... a condo, a car, friends. I don’t know anything about that. Jen doesn’t know anything about that. What happens when someone calls her by her first name and she doesn’t respond? What happens when someone from her past recognizes her?”
“She’ll have to adapt,” Saunders replies firmly. “We’ll provide documentation. Files on Laura’s daily life. Her schedule. The places she frequents. Her usual hangouts. Old text threads from her phone to study, just in case anyone from her circle reaches out.”
You hear the sharp metallic clink of something heavy being set on the table.
“Speaking of,” Kerry mutters, “here’s the bag.”
You hear it even from your bed—the zipper.
The distinct, dragged sound of a plastic zipper being pulled back. A deep duffle bag—standard hospital-issue. And from the way they start describing it, you can picture the contents perfectly.
“Everything she came in with,” Saunders says. “Her phone, car keys, wallet. House keys too—we had them retrieved from her purse. She had a small backpack in the front seat. Lip balm, mascara, a half-finished water bottle. Her school ID.”
There’s a pause. You imagine them holding the lanyard. That stupid bright orange tag with “Ms. Laura Card – Social Studies Dept.” printed across it. You remember the way it used to dangle just above her chest when she leaned over your desk.
“She was wearing a navy-blue turtleneck, jeans, ankle boots. Pretty standard for her from what I gather. We’ve cleaned and folded everything.”
“And... undergarments?” your father asks, barely getting the words out.
“Yes,” Kerry says. “Those too. They’re in the side pocket. All of it. Everything that touched her. Jennifer may need them at some point.”
There’s a long silence. You can hear it. Feel it.
Then, finally, your father speaks again—voice low, hollow.
“She’s going to have to wear those? Jennifer? In that?”
“She has no choice,” Kerry answers softly. “Laura Card’s life didn’t stop just because her brain did. That body is still a functioning part of the world. That face. That form. It’s known. It’s registered. It pays taxes. It has social media. A driver’s license. A Netflix account, for God’s sake. If Jennifer walks around in unfamiliar clothes, in unfamiliar shoes, speaking in a voice that doesn’t match the records—someone will notice.”
You feel sick.
Because you know what they’re saying is true.
But that doesn’t make it right.
Then Saunders adds something even worse. “We’ll be assigning a handler—just for the next few months. A quiet observer. Someone from the board. They’ll follow her from a distance, make sure she’s staying consistent. Especially in public. Think of it as... supervised assimilation.”
Supervised?
Like she’s a child learning to behave?
Or a criminal on parole?
Your fingernails dig into your palms.
“They’ll monitor how she dresses, how she moves, what she says. We’ve inputted a number of facial recognition red flags into the registry. If someone logs her as ‘suspicious,’ we get notified.”
“She’s not a spy, goddamn it,” your dad snaps, louder now. “She’s my wife.”
Another long pause.
“She was, Peter,” Kerry says carefully. “She still is, inside. But outside... she’s going to need to become someone else. And the sooner we all accept that, the easier it’ll be for her.”
And then the sound of the zipper again.
Closing.
Final.
Like a seal.
You can't breathe.
Your mother—the woman who packed you lunches, kissed your forehead at night, used to sing in the kitchen when she thought no one was listening—is going to be paraded around in skin-tight jeans and heels, pretending to be a woman who once taught your high school history class.
And that same body—the body that used to write on chalkboards, make teenage boys blush, stretch blouses and sweaters in a way that couldn’t be ignored—that body will now be Mom.
Every time someone calls her “Laura,” she’ll have to respond.
Every time someone mentions a memory she never lived, she’ll have to smile.
And every time she looks in the mirror...
She’ll see someone else.
Not just anyone.
But Miss Card.
Your stomach lurches. You can’t take it anymore.
You shift in bed, eyes wild, throat dry.
You want to scream. Or cry. Or throw the covers off and run.
But all you do is whisper to no one:
“Mom... what are they doing to you?”
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