Merope, Maybe : 5 / 19

[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

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"The moment there is suspicion about a person's motives, everything he does becomes tainted."
— Mahatma Gandhi

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I entered the grumpy man's office. Immediately I felt sorry for the guy. What a terrible place to work! I'd be testy, too, if I had to spend all day there. It wasn't exactly small; it was an adequate size, but just barely. Not cramped enough to complain about, but not large enough to be comfortable. If only the ceiling was slightly higher... if only a few square feet of floor space could somehow be added, it wouldn't seem so... confining... not quite a prison cell.

It screamed basement. It verged on claustrophobic.

Maybe you get used to it, I told myself, but a look at man's face told me that you don't. Some things you never get used to. They wear on you, wear you down.

Naturally, there were no windows — at seven levels underground, no one could expect a decent window, but that, along with the dull, military green of the walls and ceiling, had to feel oppressive after eight hours, day after day.

The floor itself was a fifties throwback: linoleum tiles, alternating green and dull white.

The only positive I could find was the air: the circulation was surprisingly good. The atmosphere seemed almost fresh, not stale at all. It was sterile, though: there was no scent, no trace of any smell, good or bad.

As far as decor, the room had two tall narrow bookshelves, crammed with binders.

He had no pictures on the walls. No photos or knickknacks on his desk.

The desk stood more or less in the center of the room: a heavy old metal thing, painted green, with a pale linoleum top, chipped in one corner. Probably military surplus.

An honest-to-god inbox sat on the corner of his desk: it was a small, black wire basket with the word IN written on a white 3x5 card and taped to the front of the basket. Half a dozen papers lay face down, waiting to be read.

There were two chairs behind the desk and one in front, which seemed odd. I would have expected the opposite. In any case, I sat down in front of the desk, with my back to the door. I was sure I sat in front because a huge old computer monitor occupied the far end of the desk and its screen faced away from me. I wondered whether the system was old enough to only display green characters on a black background. I felt it might.

The grumpy man followed me in, walked past his desk and sat in the chair closer to the computer screen.

"Have a seat," he said in a tone of dry irony.

"Thanks," I replied. He didn't react or look up. He only sniffed and gave his chin a quick tug.

Then he cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and made an elaborate show of cracking his knuckles and warming up his fingers as if he were a concert pianist. He straightened up in his chair and pulled his keyboard closer to himself.

I took a breath and was about to start talking, but he raised his hands and gently pumped the brakes. "Wait."

After he'd typed for half a minute, he looked up at me and said, "I know that you want to give your narration, but first I need to get a few facts." He patted a piece of paper on his desk, and continued, "Then I'll go over a few things with you, about how all this works and what you can expect. Okay?"

"I guess— I mean, yes, that fine. But what do you mean by narration?"

"That's what we call your *story*, your version of the switcher incident. You'll get to tell that in full, and we'll record it, but we've found it's easier if I ask you some questions first." He hit the TAB key and poised his hands above the keyboard. "So... date and time of incident."

"Let's see... it was yesterday — I don't know exactly — let's say it was just after one."

He dropped his hands into his lap. Clearly, my answer wouldn't do. "Is that one AM or one PM?"

"PM. No, AM. Sorry, it was after noon, so it's PM. PM. I'm just a little flustered."

"Aren't we all," he commented sardonically. "How many minutes after one? Five? Ten? Fifteen?"

"Oh, it had to be 1:15? 1:20?"

"Pick one," he told me.

"1:20."

"Location of incident?"

"It was in Upper Harmish, on the river walkway. At a point called the Pinch." He raised his eyes, giving me a baleful look. "It's well-known locally," I explained.

He huffed as he typed, as if the work weighed heavily upon him. It looked like he had to click with his mouse before adding a note about the Pinch, and that seemed quite a lot to ask.

"Witnesses?"

I blinked. He said, "That's a yes/no question."

"No."

"Did the switch appear intentional on the Switcher's part? Yes/no."

"Intentional? No."

"Prior to the switch, did the Switcher appear to know your identity? Yes/no."

"No."

He maneuvered his mouse and clicked on a SAVE button.

"Now," he said, with a grim smile, as though we'd come to a crossroads, "Who were you before the switch? That is to say, what was your name?"

"Anson Charpont," I replied, and spelled it for him. He took Anson's particulars: date and place of birth, social security number, address, wife's name and contact information.

"Okay," he said, "here we go." He visibly tensed. I think he actually held his breath. He hit the ENTER key and waited. A soft ding! sounded. The man actually smiled. "Right. We've verified that there is such a person." He nodded his head several times, seemingly grateful that we'd dodged that bullet (whatever the bullet was). He explained, "If that didn't verify... Well, let's just say it would have been a major headache."

He took another breath and nervously squeezed the fingers of one hand with the other. He moved his mouse and clicked on a second button. This time, the response came right away: a low, rasping buzz. "Oh, shit," he whispered.

"I'm going to try again," he said softly. He clicked. Once again, the computer responded with an ugly buzz.

The man had a expression of— of what? An expression of dismay. He couldn't look me in the eye.

"I'm sorry," he said. He spoke in an undertone, as if he didn't want to be overheard. "We have this new... protocol..." He ran his hand across his eyes and shifted uneasily in his chair. Then he stood, pushed his char away from himself, said, "Wait here," and walked out of the room.

I listened to his footsteps in the hall, and when it as clearly safe, I leaned forward to look at his screen. It told me nothing. His screen was locked, and all I could see was the old starfield screensaver.

He quickly returned with one of his co-workers, a man dressed almost identically (khakis and yellow polo shirt). This man, by contrast, had a friendly, open expression. He looked like the kind of guy who plays a lot of squash at a country club: blond hair, lightly tanned skin, trim, fit, but not exactly athletic. I liked him right away.

He and the grumpy fellow took the two seats behind the desk. The new man reached out to shake my hand. "Hello, my name is Paul, and this guy here is Matt, in case he hasn't introduced himself." He smiled as he said it, as though it was a joke shared between him and me. Matt, the grump, didn't smile. He wouldn't meet my gaze.

"I'm Merope," I told him, feeling that his polite introduction deserved a reply.

"Are you, now," he said.

"I guess so," I replied. "If you let me?"

He let my half-joking comment blow by. "Okay, now, I've got a funny little question to ask you, if you don't mind. Do you know what identity the Switcher was using before this one, the one you're in?"

"I don't follow," I told him.

"Okay. That's fine," he said. "It was a stretch. It would have helped a great deal if you did, you know, recognize him or know him somehow... but anyway, that's fine. Now, look here." He took a blank piece of paper and a pen. On the paper he drew four stick figures in a line from left to right. The second stick figure was a woman — she had a skirt and two curly hairs, one on each side of her head. At the top of the page, above the figures, he wrote the word BEFORE and at the bottom, below the figures, he wrote AFTER.

"Before the Switcher came along, there were four people. Four ordinary people, okay? This one—" he pointed to the woman "—was Merope, inside and out." He wrote Merope above her head. "This guy here standing next to her, was Anson, right? Inside and out." He wrote Anson above the third figure's head. "Here and here—" he pointed to the two figures on either end "—we have two unknowns." He wrote JD1 over the figure on the far left and JD2 over the figure on the far right.

"Still with me?" he asked. I opened my mouth to ask what JD stood for, but he saw it coming and answered, "John Doe One and John Doe Two. We have two unknowns, not necessarily male."

"Right," I agreed.

"The Switcher comes along, and what does he do? First he enters John Doe number one, then Merope, then Anson, then John Doe number two, right?"

"Right."

"And the four of you, all four of you, shift over one. At this point, John Doe number one has Merope inside." He wrote Merope under the first figure. "Merope has Anson inside — that's you, now." He wrote Anson under the female stick figure. "Anson now has John Doe number two inside of him..." He wrote JD2 under Anson's stick figure, "And John Doe number two has... well, let's say the Switcher is still there." He wrote Switcher under the last figure.

"See? The Switcher moves this way—" he drew arrows from one figure to the next, going left to right "— but the victims all shift one person over in the opposite direction. Do you follow me?" With his finger, he showed the movement of identities, of Merope into JD1, Anson into Merope, JD2 into Anson.

"It would be nice if we knew who these two people are," he told me, pointing to the two John Does.

"I wish I could help you with that," I told him.

"Because, you see, it's like a daisy chain, isn't it. The chain started when the Switcher first appeared, and it will keep on going, adding link upon link, until he dies, I suppose."

"It's kind of scary," I agreed.

"Right. Scary. Okay. But do you know what's really amazing about this chain? We know — we have documented — virtually every single link! From the very beginning! I'll admit, we don't have all of them. There's always a little lag with the newest... victims, links. Of course, there are some gaps, some notable gaps, but we know the identities, old and new, of more than 90% of the Switcher's victims."

"That's remarkable," I said.

"And you know, each link supports the two nearest links. For instance, this John Doe would say, I'm not John Doe, I'm Merope! and when we find Merope, Merope says, I'm not Merope, I'm Anson! And then Anson says, I'm not Anson, I'm John Doe number two!"

"I get it," I told him. He was becoming tedious.

"I don't mean to keep harping on this," he continued, gesturing to the stick figures, "but the chain, as you can imagine, is very long. I don't remember how long, but whew! it's long. For today, though, we're going to narrow our focus. We're going to concentrate on these three or four people right here—" he tapped on the picture of the four stick figures. "Do you know why? It's because right here, the chain is broken." He moved his hand vaguely to the left of the female stick figure. "We don't know who the Switcher was back here, or before this point. We'd like to link this to the established chain, to the victims we already know." He gestured vaguely to the right of Anson. "We also don't know who the Switcher is — or was — on this side, either. We don't know whether he's moved on."

He smiled and looked me in the eyes, and in that moment I didn't like him any more.

He said, "It's pretty simple. There are links missing from the chain. We don't have John Doe number one, and we don't have Anson Charpont. All we have is you."

"And how is that a problem?" I asked, my mouth suddenly gone dry.

Paul, who I thought was the nice one, settled back in his chair. Matt, who I thought was the grumpy one, made steeples of his fingertips and studiously fixed his gaze on his hands. He hadn't given me so much as a glance throughout Paul's harangue. It struck me that he didn't enjoy Paul's recitation at all.

A woman suddenly entered the office, carrying three bottles of water. She set one in front of me and one each in front of the two men. "Would you rather have coffee?" she asked me.

"No, water's fine, thanks," I croaked. I twisted off the lid with a loud crack! and took a long sip. Somehow I found myself as thirsty and dry as if I'd just crawled out of the desert. The woman smiled at me and left the room.

Paul waited until I finished drinking before he continued.

"We're very open-minded people here. We've all been doing this job for a good long while, handling the Switcher's victims. Things have changed over the years, especially since the public has become more aware. At first we made some tweaks... we adapted to accommodate new wrinkles. Lately we've had to add a whole new protocol, and that's what I'm here to talk to you about. See, in the beginning, when we first started doing this, nobody knew anything about being switched. Nobody. So when a person came in here, saying they weren't who they appeared to be, we had to believe them. Because, why would anybody claim such a thing?"

Paul cracked open his bottle of water and took a small sip. Then he went on. "In the last few years, as the general public learned about the Switcher, we started seeing a different kind of person here. They'd show up, come in here, and tell us they'd been switched. Only problem was — they weren't. They *claimed* they'd met the Switcher, but they really hadn't. It wasn't too hard to tell, though. For one thing, the real victims tended to freak out... to cry or shake or... well, a few even threw up. But the fakers? For the most part, they were dead calm."

He looked me in the eyes and smiled. Calm, like you, was the obvious message.

"Believe me, I'm far from calm on the inside," I told him. There was a hard edge to my voice. I don't like being called a liar.

He raised his eyebrows and spread his hands in a gesture of innocence. "I'm not saying anything!" he protested mildly. "I'm just giving you some background, so you understand where I'm coming from."

I didn't answer. I sat there and swallowed my anger. He could probably see the flames dancing behind my eyes, but I didn't care.

I never should have come here, I told myself.

"With that in mind, I'd like to ask you, Merope, why do you think someone would do that? Why would anyone lie and pretend to be a victim of the Switcher?"

"That's not what I'm doing," I countered in as level a tone as I could manage.

"Again, I didn't say you were! I'm just asking you a simple question. Just use your imagination, just a little bit. Humor me. Why do you think a person might pretend to be a Switcher victim?" When I didn't answer, he added in a coaxing tone, "Come on, try."

Matt pressed his lips more tightly together and continued to study his fingertips.

"Well," I said, thinking out loud, "Maybe they want attention. Or maybe they're bored, or curious about the process. Maybe they think you'll give them a brand new life, and they'd like to explore that option."

"Those are pretty good guesses. Anything else come to mind?"

I took a breath, and after a moment suggested, "Maybe... they want to escape from poverty or abuse?"

"Possibly. You're getting warmer. There's another reason; a big reason, and one that concerns us — concerns our government greatly. I'm surprised you haven't thought of it."

I shook my head and shrugged. So he leaned forward and gave the answer he'd been looking for.

"Fraud," he said. "Purposes of fraud. We've seen people who falsely claim they were switched because they want to slide out from under their debt, or because they don't want to face the consequences of their crimes. They come here because they want a get out of jail free card."

Keeping my gaze steady, I continued to lock my eyes on his. My jaw tightened, and in that moment one of Anson's habits kicked in. Maybe ten years ago, as Anson, I'd cracked one of my molars by clenching my jaw. Since then, I trained myself and developed a reflex. When my jaw tensed, I'd open it slightly and try to relax.

That in itself was striking. Inside, I was still Anson. I carried that habit over to my new body. Yes — this whippersnapper (Paul) thought he was talking to a thirty-something who'd probably broken the law. Instead, he was talking to an older man, a man with more years, more life experience than the smug frat boy facing me. I wasn't going to waste my breath defending myself to him. The facts were what they were; the facts would bear me out. I held my ground.

"Because of the number of people seeking our help for the purpose of committing fraud," Paul went on, "the government is cracking down. Obviously, we are the first line of defense against it."

How nice for you, I said mentally, in a tone heavy with irony.

"You might wonder," he said, "whether someone could be found guilty of fraud simply because they've come here and told a little lie." He paused for effect.

"Actually, I don't wonder that at all," I told him.

He cocked his head back. "I'm going to tell you anyway," he insisted. "Attempted fraud is a crime. It's as if a person gets arrested while they're trying to rob a bank. They didn't actually rob the place, but they're still guilty of the crime."

"There are some holes in your argument," I informed him. "You're talking as though someone who gives you a funny look can be arrested for picking your pocket."

He shook his head. "That's quite a leap," he commented.

"My point exactly," I shot back.

"Okay, look," he said, sounding a bit irritated, "I don't think either of us want to draw out this discussion, and neither of us want to unnecessarily complicate our lives. So what I'm going to do is this: I'm going to offer your the opportunity to stop right here. If you decide to change your mind about being a Switcher victim — if you tell me that you've thought about it, and realize you were mistaken — we'll forget all about your visit. I'll walk you to the door, and we'll leave it there." I shook my head. He ignored it.

"You seem like a nice person," he continued, "and *I* don't want to deal with a pile of avoidable paperwork. So what do you say? Shall we stop here and unwind the whole thing?"

Before I could answer, he quickly added, "By the way: this is a one-time offer. I'm not going to make it again, and neither is anyone else in this place. It's now or never."

I didn't answer right away. I sat very still, unmoving. I focused on my breath. I felt my anger, alive, flowing in me like an underground river. Paul waited. I hung fire. I almost smiled.

After a few moments, a slight movement of his lips told me he was about to speak again, so I pre-empted him. "I'm a Switcher victim," I said. "I'm not a fraud."

"Okay," he declared, standing up, letting his chair scrape across the floor. "It's your funeral! Just remember, I gave you a chance!" He stepped away from the desk and headed for the door.

After he was gone, Matt — who up to now seemed a total grump — actually smiled at me.

"Nice work," he said in an undertone. I smiled back.

"Listen," I told him. "My family could tell you who I am. Can you let me talk to them?"

"No, sorry. We have a protocol—"

"Okay, I understand," I interrupted. "Can *you* talk to them?"

"Sure," he said. "That's actually part of the protocol. I assume you mean Anson's family."

"Yes." I recited Cleo's phone number. He dialed it immediately and listened. Looking up at me, he said, "Voice mail."

I heard the beep, and Matt said, "Hello, I'm calling from the Switcher Processing Center. We're trying to verify whether your husband was involved in a Switcher incident. Could you call us back at your earliest convenience?" He gave a phone number and told Cleo to ask for Matt.

"Thanks," I told him.

"No problem," he answered. "I'll tell you something: this isn't the greatest job in the world, but it was a hell of a lot better before all that fraud stuff started. Accusing people of crimes they haven't yet committed has no upside; it gets people upset, and hard feelings make everything more difficult."

I nodded, then told him, "Listen, anyway, though, the other two — the John Doe with Merope inside, and the Anson with the other John Doe inside — they'll turn up. I'm sure they will. I mean, why did Paul have to jump on me about them?"

"That's the protocol. Somehow the high muckety-mucks decided that Switcher victims would report or be detected within 24 hours of each other. You trigger the protocol because you switched a day ago, and neither Anson nor John Doe one have shown up."

"But they will," I assured him.

"Sure," he replied in a neutral tone that neither agreed nor disagreed. "It'll all work out. In the meantime, how do you feel about staying here in the center for two or three days, until one of them checks in?"

"I guess that's fine," I said slowly. For a moment my mind considered the effect on Rowan and Femke. Rowan would be fine. Femke could leave whenever she liked. So I nodded.

Matt smiled and nodded back.

Then my mind turned to my family. Honestly, Herman lived so wrapped up in his own life, he probably hadn't noticed my absence. I wondered, as I often had, whether he was alive enough to have a girlfriend... or boyfriend, although I don't think he was made that way. Was Herman similar to me? Was he a solitary type, with few friends or contacts outside of work?

And Cleo... if she was concerned, she'd soon return Matt's call. Maybe while I was sitting there?

"Alright," Matt said, interrupting my reverie, "let's get on with the intake process. Why don't you tell me how it happened?"

I went through the story, starting with my retirement. I almost got bogged down in my conflicts with Cleo, but I was able to move on to the moment that I left the house yesterday morning. Again, I nearly ran off in the weeds when I touched on the strange scone, but I managed to quickly recover, and moved on to my walk along the river. Matt hadn't heard of the Pinch (before I'd mentioned it earlier), and he let me go on for bit, describing it...

"Are you recording this?" I asked. "I noticed you're not taking any notes."

"It's being recorded," he assured me, and pointed to a camera lens, visible through a hole in one of the binders behind him. "There are other cameras and microphones in here as well." He pointed vaguely around the office.

Still, Matt was sitting there, listening to me. He let me go on, never interrupting or steering me back on track, until... I guess I got bogged down in the details. His patience with my level of irrelevant bits and pieces evaporated when I described seeing my phone bounce into the ivy. He shifted impatiently and asked, "Why are you telling me that?"

"Telling you what?"

"About the phone bouncing into the ivy!" He gave a shaking what gives? shrug. "How is that relevant?"

"It's relevant because I fished the phone out afterward," I told him, reaching into my bag and producing the phone. "Otherwise, the Switcher would have gone off with it." I held it up for him to see. He blinked a few times, then asked, "So... whose phone is that?"

"It's mine," I declared. "It's Anson's."

"Give it here," he said, making the gimmee gesture with his hand. He wrote "Anson Charpont phone" on a yellow post-it note, stuck the note on the phone, and dropped the phone into a plastic bag.

"Hey, I want that!" I exclaimed. "It's mine!"

"No, it's not," he informed me. "It belongs to Anson Charpont."

"But—" I stopped. I understood. I processed what he said. Then I asked, "Are you going to give that phone to— to whoever is Anson now?"

"That depends," he said.

"On what?"

"On whether he keeps that identity."

I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. I wasn't able to formulate the questions I wanted to ask. Matt, having seen this reaction umpteen times before, explained it to me.

"As far as the world is concerned, you are no longer Anson Charpont. Agreed?"

"Agreed," I conceded, a bit hesitantly.

"Leave aside the people who actually know you. I'm talking about the world in general. To them, you can't possibly be Anson Charpont. Someone else is playing that role."

"Okay," I conceded grudgingly.

He went on. "Or at least, at this point, someone else looks like Anson Charpont. As to whether they can *be* Anson—"

"Wait a minute — wait a minute —" I interrupted. "Is that person going to get my pension? My 401K? My savings? My social security? My car?"

"It depends," he repeated. "If they maintain the identity, Anson Charpont, they will own all the assets that used to belong to you. They would also assume any debts, if you had any."

"I didn't — I don't," I put in.

"They would assume any legal obligations that you had when you were Anson Charpont. For example, they would be legally married to Cleo."

I fell silent, considering. Effectively, I'd been divorced. By the Switcher.

Matt let me think for a moment. Then, "Now, what does it mean to maintain the identity? It means this: We contact the family of Anson Charpont — I called Cleo, right? We explain the situation, and once she grasps it, once she understands the situation, we will ask her officially whether she can accept that other person as Anson Charpont. If Cleo agrees, then that person will be able to pick up your life right where you left off."

"And if she says no, then that person gets nothing of mine. Right?"

"That's correct."

"So... in that event, do *I* get all my assets? All of Anson's assets? They must revert back to me, right?"

"No. There's no legal mechanism for transferring assets from one Switcher victim to another." I rubbed my chin, taking it in. The smooth feel of my chin was a slight shock — the absence of stubble was a new sensation, one I wasn't yet used to.

"Okay. But let's say Cleo rejects the new Anson. Does that mean I can go—"

"No," Matt said. "For you, there is no way back. What happens if Cleo rejects that person, is that Anson Charpont would be declared dead, and Cloe would proceed as if you were, in fact, dead: there would be insurance payouts, execution of your will — if you have one — all of that."

I blinked a few times. It seemed monstrous.

"In the event that Cleo doesn't accept the new Anson, we can ask — if you *want* us to ask — whether she'll allow you to live with her. You have to understand that she's under no obligation, and that you'd be a guest in her home, in her life. You'd have no right to make any kind of demand of her, at all."

"Oh, man!" I exclaimed.

"It's a hard pill to swallow," Matt said, sympathetically.

"I guess so. Honestly, it *is* what I expected. It's what I thought would happen. It just that — it feels very different when it gets down to brass tacks."

Matt nodded.

"Okay," I said. "I think I understand all that. Now, can you tell me what's involved in my keeping *this* identity?" I gestured at myself. "What do I have to do to be Merope Goddard?"

"Why would you want to?" he asked.

"It beats the alternative," I told him. "I mean, if I'm not her, who am I? You'll make up a name and give it to me. I'll be a disconnected individual. I won't have any parents, or family, or any kind of personal history. I won't have any work history. I won't be anybody."

After a moment, I added, "I won't even be able to make chit-chat. If someone asks where I grew up, where I went to high school, I'll have no answer. Or I'll have to answer with a constructed lie."

"And if you were Merope? How would that be different?"

"At least I'd be a real person. I could dig into my past, into my family—"

"Well, see, that's a thing," Matt said. "If Merope has a family, they'll have to give their okay to your being her."

"How close family would they have to be?" I asked.

"They would have to be members of Merope's immediate family. So... husband, domestic partner, maybe... we'd have to see whether Merope has any children." he looked at me "But that's about it. You're an adult, so that would be it. You wouldn't need parental permission."

"Okay," I agreed. I held up my ring finger. "No husband."

He nodded. "I'll see in a moment whether you have any children or dependents."

"How will you do that?"

"Tax returns," he replied. "We'll see if you declared any dependents."

"Cool!" I exclaimed. I felt sure the result would be negative.

"I hope you understand that you'll have to take the bad with the good. If Merope has any debts, you'd be responsible for them."

"I thought I'd get a clean slate—"

"If we assign you a new identity, then yes, that would be true. If you want to pick up Merope's life, you take everything that comes along with it."

"Okay, I get it."

"If she has any sort of police record..."

"It would be mine now," I agreed, nodding. Rowan had already assured me that I didn't need to worry about that possibility.

Matt leaned back, stretching.

"I have to admit: if you remain Merope, it drastically cuts down on my paperwork."

"That's a good thing."

"You might have to sign a waiver...," he said, sounding uncertain. I frowned.

"I'm getting the impression that most people don't play the hand they're dealt, like the Public Service Announcements say."

"No, most people don't," he admitted. "Not usually. Not unless they're minors and don't have a choice. Or sometimes adults who knew each other before they got switched. Otherwise, if you're an adult, it's a big risk, taking on the life of a stranger. You have no idea what you're getting yourself into. It's much safer to get a brand new, never-used identity."

"How does it work out, generally? I mean, for adults who get a new name and all that."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, do people adjust? Do they have issues, starting their lives off from zero? Or do they manage to make a go of it?"

He gave me a funny look. He sniffed and swallowed, and then he said, "I wouldn't know."

"What? Isn't there some kind of follow-up? Doesn't someone check up on Switcher victims, to see how they're doing?"

"No," he said simply.

"No? Just no?"

"We don't have the resources," he told me.

I was shocked. I felt the blood drain from my face. To think, all the people who were touched by the Switcher... how many were there? hundreds? thousands? They'd been traumatized, dispossessed... and then were abandoned in the end?

"Is there some other agency... I mean, does anyone in the government—"

He cut me off. "Look," he told me. "We don't have the budget for psychologists and therapists, and there's no system in place to track people once they leave here. Nobody looks them up. Nobody asks them how they're doing. There is no other agency." He paused and took a breath. "We do what we can, but the only time we touch the victim's life is while they're here. Once they leave, they're on their own." He blushed. "It's tough, but I'm pretty sure that's the way it is all over the world."

He sighed. "Anyway, you might have to sign a waiver for this. I'll check. You'll have to officially acknowledge that you're responsible for all of it — you know: debts, relationships, jobs..."

A sudden thought hit me, so I burst in: "Oh, that reminds me!"

"Wait, let me finish," he said, "You won't be able to use the fact that you were switched as an out. Officially, legally, being a Switcher victim doesn't count for anything. The government won't ever confirm or deny that you were switched, and we don't hand out I've Been Switched! certificates."

"I see," I said. Then, remembering, I asked, "Well, what about my work history? Can I use my knowledge and experience as Anson to get a job?"

"Everything in your head is yours: all your knowledge, all your mental skills. However, you can't use Anson's work experience on Merope's resume," he said. "But just out of curiosity, what did you used to do for work?"

"I was a COBOL programmer," I told him.

"Hmm," he replied. "Recently? Is that still a thing?"

"Yes, recently!" I shot back, a little hotly, "It's definitely still a thing."

"Okay," Matt conceded. "Touchy subject, I guess."

"Sorry," I told him. "It's just that— oh, never mind!"

"Hopefully, while you're here we'll get an idea of what Merope did for a living. It could be a good possibility for you to follow up on."

"Yeah, who knows?" I agreed, as visions of fake IDs danced in my head.