How she managed to stay so optimistic, so full of life, even with the hand she’d been dealt, Jeremiah would never fully understand. But his mother had a real knack for making even the most commonplace things seem extraordinary and full of possibility.

They used to play a game she called “Imagine,” which involved her scavenging the house for three random objects and hiding them in a shoebox. She’d run past him, in and out of rooms, giggling and marveling at the treasures she’d collected, and Jeremiah could hardly contain his excitement. When she was finished, she’d present the box to him with a flourish, and he would close his eyes and take the objects out, one by one, and had to make up a story about whatever he found there. Ordinary things, items they’d looked at and tripped over ten times a day, were suddenly magical and full of mystery. The stories he told began as nonsensical little things: The pencil and the fish food finally found the car keys and went for a long ride, and he’d look up at her, disappointed that all the anticipation and excitement—all her treasure hunting—had resulted in something so dull. But she would get excited and spur him on with ridiculous, wonderful questions: Which one was driving? Where did they go? Did they stop to eat along the way? It would turn into a long, involved tale, replete with dinosaurs or aerial acrobatics, and he’d add details to it sporadically, right up until bedtime, until he knew he’d never look at a pencil the same way again. It was a wonderful game. He used to try to play it with Parker when he was little, but it never came out the same way, and he’d finally given up. He realized now that he’d never actually told his mother, later in life, how much that game had meant to him. It hadn’t even crossed his mind in years. But he remembered it.

Stuck in the lab, he was struck by the notion that his clone might be remembering the exact same thing, and that possibility infuriated him. It felt like a violation. That was his memory. She was his mother.

It must have been just before seven in the morning when Brent came into the apartment without a knock. He found Jeremiah still sitting on the couch, still in his underwear, cradling his bruised hand in his lap.

“I’m sorry,” Brent told him.

Jeremiah said nothing but looked at Brent with a sort of contempt he hadn’t felt toward him before. As far as he was concerned, anyone involved in this experiment, including Brent, was just another of his captors. Just someone else who wouldn’t give him the keys. And Brent was certainly complicit with that report he’d written for Scott. Sorry, he thought. Yeah, right.

“I just wanted to see if you were all right,” Brent said. “Besides, we have a morning viewing. Basically, I’m just here early.”

Jeremiah turned away from him and stared at the wall.