“You don’t have to talk now. Just rest and we’ll talk again later.” She’s kind and so I sip my tea and bask in the sensation that someone has my back.

Later I will tell them every last detail. I’m almost looking forward to it.

* * *

There are one hundred and one myths that surround identical twins. Some have a basis in reality, and some are such complete horseshit it’s almost funny.

Myth one: we share the same DNA.

When my father’s sperm met my mother’s egg—not something I particularly like to think about, to be honest, but there we are—there was only one of us. Over the next few days, as the cells began to divide, the ball spontaneously cleaved into two. No one knows why this occurs; there is no genetic link, no societal or cultural phenomenon to explain it. The rate of identicals is the same the world over, in every population group. Most people therefore parrot the “same DNA” mantra. It’s not quite true. We are clones of each other, yes, but our DNA goes through subtle changes over time, constant micro-mutations that can be identified. However, the technique is rather sophisticated and generally only used in cases where murder convictions rely on DNA evidence to ensure that the wrong twin isn’t inadvertently executed or imprisoned for life.

Myth two: we share some kind of psychic link.

Most twins are close. Most will hold hands while they sleep in their bassinets as tiny babies. Most will finish each other’s sentences and, at least while they are young, enjoy the same kinds of activities. Some develop a special language that only the two of them can understand, to the chagrin of exasperated parents. But I have never known what my twin was thinking. And for that I am thankful. Can you imagine being psychic if your twin is a psychopath?

Myth three: it is difficult to tell us apart.

Most twins are easily identified, and when placed side by side you can see a huge array of differences. My sister and I are more identical physically than most; there’s a convention in America that tries to find the most identical pair and we would smash that. But even though to the naked eye we look the same, it is easy to tell us apart. Dental records for example, if we didn’t both suffer from such a deep-seated phobia that neither of us had ever been to the dentist. We fed off Mum’s own fears and she’d been almost relieved when we refused to go. Just thank God we hadn’t needed braces. Scars and birthmarks are good giveaways. Medical history too—if you could trust we were always who we said we were, of course.

Our fingerprints are completely different, as dissimilar as if we weren’t twins at all. But here’s the thing. You would need to know which set of prints belong to Leah and which belong to Megan, a base reference as it were. Are yours on file somewhere? Only if you committed a crime or had to be taken out of an equation at a crime scene, or there’s another good official reason for them to be. All I need to do is prove that I am Leah and this will all go perfectly. And guess who recently went to Las Vegas and gave the U.S. Border Force a lovely copy of her prints?