The room fell silent.

“Anyone?!” said Browne.

I dropped my fork right into my spaghetti.

Is this actually alien life? Am I really that lucky?! To be alive when humanity first discovers extraterrestrial life?!

Wow! I mean—the Petrova problem is still terrifying but… wow! Aliens! This could be aliens! I couldn’t wait to talk about this with the kids tomorrow—

“Angular anomaly,” the computer says.

“Darn it!” I say. “I was almost there! I almost remembered myself!”

“Angular anomaly,” the computer repeats.

I unfold myself and get to my feet. In my limited interactions with it, the computer seems to have some understanding of what I say. Like Siri or Alexa. So I’ll talk to it like I’d talk to one of them.

“Computer, what is an angular anomaly?”

“Angular anomaly: an object or body designated as critical is not at the expected location angle by at least 0.01 radians.”

“What body is anomalous?”

“Angular anomaly.”

Not much help. I’m on a ship, so it must be a navigational issue. That can’t be good. How would I even steer this thing? I don’t see anything resembling spaceship controls—not that I really know what those look like. But all I’ve discovered so far is a “coma room” and a lab.

That other hatch in the lab—the one that leads farther up—that must be important. This is like being in a video game. Explore the area until you find a locked door, then look for the key. But instead of searching bookshelves and garbage cans, I have to search my mind. Because the “key” is my own name.

The computer’s not being unreasonable. If I can’t remember my own name, I probably shouldn’t be allowed into delicate areas of the ship.

I climb onto my bunk and lie on my back. I keep a wary eye on the robot arms above, but they don’t move. I guess the computer is satisfied that I’m self-sufficient for now.

I close my eyes and focus on that flash of memory. I can see bits and pieces of it in my mind. Like looking at an old photo that’s been damaged.

I’m in my house… no… apartment. I have an apartment. It’s tidy, but small. There’s a picture of the San Francisco skyline on one wall. Not useful. I already know I lived in San Francisco.

There’s a Lean Cuisine microwave meal on the coffee table in front of me. Spaghetti. The heat still hasn’t equalized yet, so there are pockets of nearly frozen noodles next to tongue-melting plasma. But I’m taking bites anyway. I must be hungry.

I’m watching NASA on TV; I see all that stuff from my previous flash of memory. My first thought is… I’m elated! Could it be extraterrestrial life? I can’t wait to tell the kids!

I have kids? This is a single man’s apartment with a single man eating a single man’s meal. I don’t see anything feminine at all. There’s nothing to suggest a woman in my life. Am I divorced? Gay? Either way, there’s no sign that children live here. No toys, no pictures of kids on the wall or mantel, nothing. And the place is way too clean. Kids make a mess of everything. Especially when they start chewing gum. They all go through a gum phase—at least, a lot of them do—and they leave it everywhere.