Chapter 1

Abdominal pain. White light and blurred figures surrounding me. Vertigo. The sound of caster wheels rattling beneath the stretcher, sirens fading in the background, the beeping of a heart rate monitor. Shooting pain again, this time all through my left side from shoulder to hip. Flatline beep. Cramps. Cold metal on my chest and a stab of pain. My body jumps uncontrollably. “We’re losing him!” Beeping continues. Sharp pain in my arm and another jolt through my chest. Then all is white and calm and my sense of having a body fades away. The white light shrinks as darkness comes in from all around. Then nothing.

These are the last things I remember of my adult life.

After some indeterminable time, I open my eyes and blink to clear my vision. I’m in a comfortable bed, in a white and sterile room. A single window with frosted glass lets in warm diffuse sunlight. My memories of last night are faint and jumbled. I clearly remember the vice-principal shouting at me that afternoon, threatening to sue me and to have me thrown out of school if I didn’t voluntarily leave. A flash of anger and shame comes with the recollection. I had only made a joke, for fuck’s sake! Ok, so maybe telling a joke about a Muslim man accidentally having incestuous sex with his underage nephew had been a bad idea, particularly in the middle of a sex-ed class in seventh grade, but the school board had definitely overreacted. Bloody oversensitivity to anything sexual or religious! Bloody political correctness and cancel culture!

Groaning and raising my hand to my eyebrow to scratch an itch, I realize there’s a plastic tube in my arm and another tube in my nose. What the... ? I try to sit up higher and take in more of my surroundings. Pulse oximeter on my finger. Medical equipment and an intravenous drip - very posh and costly materials from what I can tell at a glance, so apparently I had been taken to a private hospital for some reason. Was there a ... yes, a catheter and a drainage bag half full of what looked like very clear urine. No bandages anywhere though, and very little physical discomfort from what I could tell. That’s strange. I fuzzily remember going on a binge to drown my sorrows after being summarily fired from my teaching gig, and I can remember crawling around on all fours in the city park after being refused entry at a nightclub. I remember the gang of swarthy young men with gleaming teeth in the dark, kicking me and robbing me. The sharp crack as one of them broke my ribs, then punches or kicks landing on my back. I remember coughing blood and realizing I’m about to drown in my own blood.

Wincing at the recollection, I touch my chest where my ribs were broken last night and then draw a sharp breath with surprise as I realize there is absolutely no damage. Looking down, all I see are some electrodes taped to my chest, but my skin is completely without blemish and as I probe my ribs, they are completely intact! What the... ?

This is not possible. My ribs definitely broke - I heard the sharp crack and felt the pain, and surely I can’t have been out for ... how long does it take for ribs to heal? Weeks, surely?

But wait. My pilomotor reflex sets in and I get goosebumps all over as I look down at my torso.

My scars are gone! When I was 29, I went scuba diving and got stuck in a coral cave. I managed to pull myself free, but at the cost of two deep scars running down at an angle across my chest. And now they are gone. This is not possible. Not possible!

And then I notice the other subtle differences; my chest is completely hairless; my belly is gone - replaced by a toned midsection; my pectoral muscles are even well defined! Struck by awe, I inspect myself as well as I can without getting out of bed. Not a single thing seems wrong with my body - my skin is even smoother than I can ever remember it being before.

There is a faint “whoosh” and a change in air pressure as the door opens and a young woman comes in, dressed in a white coat. Her eyes widen with surprise as she sees me sitting upright in the bed, but she quickly recovers and walks up to me, smiling faintly. ‘Mid-twenties, petite frame, very pretty’, my mind registers during the two heartbeats it takes her to reach the bed.

“Mr. Andersson, you are awake,” she states, pointing out the obvious.
Realizing my blanket is down by my knees, I hastily jerk it up to my chest and see her hide a smirk.
“Either I am awake and something tremendously strange is going on, or this is the strangest dream I have ever had ... What day is it, miss... ?”
“I’m Dr. Olivarez,” she says, lifting a hand to her forehead to push a stray fringe of jet black hair behind her ear, before going on; “As to what day it is, it’s Wednesday afternoon. And before you ask me the date, let me just ask you a few things before I answer that, ok?” Her dialect is unusual - I can’t quite place it. Is it an accent?
Without waiting for a reply, she draws up a chair and sits down beside the bed.
“What is your full name, Mr. Andersson?”
“Karl Thomas Andersson.”
“Date of birth?”
“February second, 1979”
“Where did you live?”
“Did? What do you mean? I live in Stockholm.”
“Yes, we’ll get to that in a minute. Occupation?”
“Well, teacher, up until recently. I teach 7th to 9th-grade science subjects. On that topic, I have some questions of my own, Dr. Olivarez.” My own voice sounds unfamiliar in my ears - it’s mine, but ... somehow not quite the same.
“I will answer some of those questions later, Mr. Andersson,” she says, that hint of a smile returning; “What is the last thing you remember?”
“I remember being robbed and assaulted, then being rushed to the hospital.” The memories flood back, the brutal assault, flashes of an ambulance ride. Intubation. Choking on blood. Pain. I feel sick at the recollection.
“Anything else?”
“Did I have a heart attack or something? I remember being shocked with ... a defibrillator?”
“Very good, Mr Andersson, your brain seems completely intact. Further tests are needed of course, but this looks promising.”
“My brain seems intact? Well, of course it does! My chest got stomped, and I almost drowned, but I wasn’t kicked in the head that I can recall.”