I thought I was hallucinating because I kept seeing the same striped cat everywhere. I’d look down one hall and there it was, licking its paw. The men would move me down another hall and the cat was sleeping in a corner.

They fed me now and then, dreadful dreck. I was grateful for the red Jell-O they sometimes included, and I craved blood. Knowing my craving was merely psychological didn’t diminish its power.

In those rare moments when I stopped thinking about my fauxoir, I thought of all the selfish, stupid things I’d done in my life. It was a long list, and Ian’s name appeared several times.

If Ian knew I was here, he would come to get me out … or to kill me, I didn’t know. But sometimes I imagined him strolling in, wearing an impeccable suit, saying something insouciant to the guards while he palmed a huge tip to them, and then telling me, “Pity about Spiggott. Come along, darling.”

I don’t know how long I’d been there before I met the Professor. The men took me to the interrogation room and a striped cat came meowing toward me. A man said “Scram,” shoved me down into a chair, and cuffed me to it before leaving.

I heard a shsh-shsh-shsh and a middle-aged man in corduroy pants came to stand near the desk.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“What’s yours?” I said, but I noticed that he had the same gawky body as Ford and a similar face. Later I overheard the guards referring to “the Professor” and I knew this must be Ford’s father.

“Do you comprehend that you are in a powerless position, Miss …?”

“I’m aware that I’m being kept by people who feel exempt from the law, yes.”

“It’s very exasperating for me to talk to someone who is fixated on banalities.”

“It’s very perplexing for me to talk about untimely deaths with someone who is so curiously without affect,” I said. “You seem more interested in me than sorrowful for the deaths of the Poindexters.”

He considered this and said, “You assume that death is a permanent condition.”

“You got me. I did make that assumption. Silly me.”

“My associates are not particularly bright, and they’re determined to use more extreme methods to extract information from you. Actually, these imbeciles use any excuse for violence. I’d rather keep your organs healthy.”

“Why don’t I find that reassuring?”

He ran his hands through his messy hair and said, “I’ve got better things to do.”

“Exactly what is worth your valuable attention?” I asked.

He paused and then said, “I’ll try to put it in simple terms. Do you see that cat there?”

“It’s a clone, right?”

“The cloning’s nothing. It’s just a way to generate bio-identical spare parts to use in reanimating a subject.”