He’s starting to tell me when Dr. Gold, who’s wandered off to find something to clean his glasses with, yells from just out of sight. “Hey, Dr. Holyfield! Where’s the girl’s boy?”

Tommy stares at me, frozen. I stare back, just as frozen.

“What the hell are you talking about, Gold?”

Dr. Gold comes ambling back. He’s not concerned, just curious. “The subject. Adam. He’s not there anymore.”

– 39 –

Evening has disappeared. It takes me a while to realize this.

In the meantime, I’m getting medical attention. A doctor named Johanna has detected a possible irregularity which requires her to listen to my heartbeat. This requires me to take off my shirt. I’m sitting on a gurney with the curtains drawn around us but other doctors and nurses—Adele, Laura, Stephanie, and Steve—crowd in to assist.

“How old are you?” Dr. Adele asks.

“That depends,” I answer. “Do you mean what is my apparent age? Or my actual age?”

“I just want to know if you’re over the age of consent,” Dr. Adele says, and the others laugh nervously. She frowns. “What is the age of consent, anyway?”

“Eighteen,” someone says.

“I don’t suppose you’re eighteen, are you?” Dr. Stephanie says.

“Eighteen hours,” I say helpfully. “Depending where you count from.”

“He looks eighteen,” Nurse Steve says.

The curtain slides back. It’s Evening and a girl.

I have seen the girl in my memory. Her name is Aislin.

“Really?” Evening says, glaring at Dr. Adele, who lowers her stethoscope and mumbles something I can’t hear.

“It’s … oh my God, it’s you.” Aislin seems to be surprised in some way.

“Come on, Adam, let’s go,” Evening says.

“It’s you,” Aislin repeats.

“Yes. It is me,” I say. I suspect that is close to being a joke. “I am Adam. Adam…”

It occurs to me that I don’t know my last name. All the doctors have last names. I can see them on their name tags. Obviously, people have them, and I am people, therefore I should have one. But Terra Spiker has not put that bit of information in my head.

“Let’s go!” Evening says impatiently.

But I’m frozen in place. The enormity of it. The strangeness of it. There are people all around me and each of them has a last name.

How dare they create me and not even give me a name?

“What’s my last name?” I demand.

“What? Who cares?” Evening snaps. “We have to go!”

Another doctor appears. He stares at Evening. He looks down at her leg. Up at her face. She recognizes him.

“You’re Evening Spiker,” he says.

“Right. Um, good to, uh … You treated me, didn’t you?”

“You’re walking?”

“I am,” she says.

“Unassisted.”

“Yeah, I, uhhhhh. Have to go.”

“I have to see the leg,” he says.

“Nah, it’s just a leg.”

“Please. Please. Indulge me.”

Evening says, “I’m shy.”

“Show me the leg. Please.”

Evening sighs. “I guess it doesn’t matter anymore. Everything is coming out.” She tries to pull up the leg of her pants, but that doesn’t work, so she unbuckles her jeans and drops them to her ankles.

She has nice legs. Very athletic and shapely. But I have no idea why this man needs so badly to see them.

“Holy crap,” the doctor whispers.

Evening sighs. “Show’s over.” She pulls her pants up. “Now, we have to go.”

She grabs my hand firmly and yanks me after her.

We rush through a crowd of people in a waiting room. I see children sitting with their parents.

Do I have parents? No, I don’t.

It bothers me. Even as I’m dragged along, it bothers me. I know—I’ve been told—that I’m different, so it’s not a surprise. It’s just that I’m not simply different, I’m unique.

That should be a good thing, perhaps, but it doesn’t feel good.

“I want a last name,” I say as we reach the outside.

“Kind of busy,” Evening says, and we race to board a bus. We find seats. People gawk at me. I’m getting used to it.

“I don’t like this,” I say. It’s true. I feel bad. I feel strange.

Aislin sits across the aisle from us. “I’ve always liked the last name Allbright.”

“Adam Allbright?”

“My name’s Aislin, by the way.”

“Yes, I’m aware of your name.”

She holds out her hand, very formal. She smiles. She has a nice smile. Different from Evening’s. But nice. Someone has recently struck her. She has a bruise on her face, and I can see the individual fingermarks.

I shake her hand and try out the name again. “Hi, I’m Adam Allbright. Adam Allbright, nice to meet you.”

Evening is looking back and forth from me to Aislin. I ask her if it’s appropriate for me to call myself Allbright.

“Call yourself whatever you like.”

“Adam Allbright,” I say. “That’s me.”

– 40 –

Aislin is not drooling.

It takes me a while before I notice.

Granted, her boyfriend is in the hospital fighting for his life. But I’ve known Aislin for a long time. Aislin memorizes the face and form of every single attractive male who comes within sight.