A cheap clock clicks. A single bulb throws a jaundiced light over a cramped room: mismatched furniture, stacks of unpaid bills, a small kitchen with jars of utensils. On the fridge, a faded black-and-white PHOTO of a woman in her thirties—MARIE—pinned with a crooked magnet.
STEVE MARR, late seventies, bandages still wrapped around his head, sits on the edge of a sagging armchair. His hands tremble. He stares at a shoebox on the coffee table as if the box holds the answer.
He peels the first strip of gauze. The adhesive protests. He grunts. The strip comes away with a small rip.
STEVE
(rough, surprised)
Jesus...
He peels the rest in quick, angry motions. Gauze falls like confetti. The light hits his face. He flinches and then studies himself.
He crosses to an old mirror propped against the wall. The face that looks back is younger than it should be, cheekbones rearranged, a softened jaw. And impossibly, the tilt of the eyes, the little scar near the lip—it's Marie.
STEVE
No. No, no, no.
He slaps the glass, not hard, more to steady himself. The echo gives him courage. He leans close, fingers tracing a contour that used to feel like his own.
STEVE
(under his breath)
You wanted fresh, Steve. Not—this.
He moves to the fridge, fingers hover over Marie's photo. He takes it down, holds it beside his face. The resemblance is undeniable.
STEVE
(laughing, then bitter)
You look like her. You look like her because someone wants you to look like her.
He opens the shoebox. Inside: discharge papers, a faded matchbook for a motel, a single glove, a stapled invoice from "PEREGRINE CLINIC — FACIAL SUTURE/RECONSTRUCTION."
He snaps the invoice open. His eyes skim the print, slowing.
STEVE
(reading aloud)
"Procedure complete. Recommended follow-up in two weeks. Consent received."
He pins the paper down with a shaking hand. He flips the invoice—someone scrawled a name: "M. Harris." Not his.
STEVE
Who signs for me? Who—
He slams the shoebox shut. He paces, slow, like an old
