That night Cam looks at the scars along his wrists, like hairline bracelets, visible now that the bandages have been removed. He looks down to the thick, ropy line stretching down the center of his chest, then forking left and right above his perfectly sculpted abs. Sculpted. Like a piece of marble hewn into human form-an artist's vision of perfection. This cliffside mansion, Cam now realizes, is nothing more than a gallery, and he is the work on display. Perhaps he should feel special, but all he feels is alone.

He reaches toward his face, which he has been told not to touch. That's when Roberta comes in. She knows he's been taking stock of his body, having spied on him through the camera lurking in the corner of the room. She is accompanied by two guards, for they can already tell Cam's emotions are starting to surge and threaten a tempest.

"What's wrong, Cam?" asks Roberta. "Tell me. Find the words."

His fingertips graze his face, which is filled with strange textures, but he's afraid to truly feel his face, for fear that in his anger he might tear it apart.

Find the words. . . .

"Alice!" he says. "Carol! Alice!" The words are wrong, he knows they're wrong, but they are the closest he can get to what he wants to say. All he can do is circle, circle, circle the point, lost in orbit around his own mind.

"Alice!" He points to the bathroom. "Carol!"

A guard grins knowingly, but knowing nothing. "Maybe he's remembering old girlfriends."

"Quiet!" snaps Roberta. "Go on, Cam."

He closes his eyes, forcing the thought to take shape, but the only form that comes is the ridiculous shape of- "Walrus!" His thoughts are useless. Pointless. He despises himself.

But then Roberta says, ". . . and the Carpenter?"

He snaps his eyes to her. "Yes! Yes!" Somehow, as random as those two things are, they make perfect sense.

" 'The Walrus and the Carpenter,' " says Roberta, "an absurd poem that makes even less sense than you!"

He waits for her to connect at least some of the dots for him.

"It was written by Lewis Carroll. Who also wrote-"

"Alice!"

"Yes, he wrote Alice in Wonderland, and Through the-"

"Looking Gla.s.s!" Cam points to the bathroom. "Through the Looking Gla.s.s!" But he knows that's not the word people use for it anymore. The modern word is- "Mirror!" he shouts. "My face! In the mirror! My face!"

There is not a single mirror anywhere in the mansion, or at least in the rooms he's allowed in. Not a single reflective surface anywhere. It could not be an accident. "Mirror!" he shouts triumphantly. "I want to look in a mirror. I want to look now! Show me!" It is the clearest statement and the highest level of communication he has yet to achieve. Surely Roberta will reward that!

"Show me now! Ahora! Maintenant! Ima!"

"Enough!" says Roberta, with calculated force in her voice. "Not today. You're not ready!"

"No!" He touches his face with his fingers, this time hard enough that it begins to hurt. "It's Dauger in the iron mask, not Narcissus at the pool! Seeing will lighten the load, not break the camel's back!"

The guards look to Roberta, ready to leap in, to restrain him, to tie him once more to his bed, where he can't hurt himself. But Roberta does not give the order. She hesitates. Considers. Then she finally says, "Come with me." She turns and strides out of the room, leaving Cam and his guards to follow.

They leave the wing of the mansion that has been carefully designed for his protection, journeying to places that seem far less clinical. Rooms with warm wooden floors instead of cold linoleum. Framed artwork instead of bare white walls.

Roberta tells the guards to wait at the door, and she leads Cam into a living room. There are people present: Kenny, and some members of his therapy staff, as well as others whom Cam doesn't know; professionals of some sort who work behind the scenes of his life. When they see him, they rise from their leather chairs and sofas, alarmed by his presence.

"It's all right," Roberta tells them. "Give us a few minutes alone." They drop whatever they're doing and scurry out. Cam would ask Roberta who they are, but he already knows. They're like the guards at his door, and the guards on the rocks, and the man who cleans his messes, and the woman who rubs lotion on his scars. All these people are there to serve him.

Roberta leads him to a full-length mirror against a wall. He can see himself now head to toe. He sheds the hospital gown and stands there in his shorts, looking at himself. The shape of his body is beautiful; he is perfectly proportioned, muscular and trim. For a moment he thinks maybe he is Narcissus after all, absorbed in vanity-but as he steps closer and more into the light, he can see the scars. He knew they were there, but to see them all at once is overwhelming. They are ugly, and they're everywhere-but nowhere are they more p.r.o.nounced than on his face.

That face is a nightmare.

Strips of flesh, all different shades, like a living quilt stretched across the bone, muscle and cartilage beneath. Even his head-clean-shaven when he awoke, but now filling in with peach-fuzz hair-has different colors and textures sprouting like uneven fields of clashing crops. His eyes ache from the sight of himself, and tears cloud them.

"Why?" is all he can think to say. He turns from his reflection, trying to disappear into his own shoulder, but Roberta gently touches that shoulder.

"Don't look away," she says. "Have the strength to see what I see."

He forces himself to look again, but all he can see are the scars.

"Monster!" he says. That word comes from so many different bits of memory, he needs no help finding it. "Frankenstein!"

"No," Roberta says sharply. "Never think that! That monster was made from dead flesh, but you are made of the living! That creature was a violation of all things natural, but you, Cam, you are a new world wonder!"

Now she looks into the mirror with him, pointing out his many miraculous parts. "Your legs belonged to a varsity runner," she tells him, "and your heart to a boy who could have been an Olympic swimmer, had he not been unwound. Your arms and shoulders once belonged to the best baseball player any harvest camp had ever seen, and your hands? They played guitar with rare and glorious talent!" Then she smiles and catches his gaze in the mirror. "As for your eyes, they came from a boy who could melt a girl's heart with a single glance."

There is a certain pride in the way she speaks of him. It's a pride he cannot yet feel himself.

Roberta puts a finger to his temple. "But the best of it all is right in here!" She moves her finger around the mult.i.textured fuzz of his hair, pointing out different spots on his cranium, like travel destinations on a globe.

"Your left frontal lobe holds the a.n.a.lytical and computational skills of seven kids who tested at the genius level in math and science. Your right frontal lobe combines the creative cores of almost a dozen poets, artists, and musicians. Your occipital lobe holds neuron bundles from countless Unwinds with photographic memories, and your language center is an international hub of nine languages, all waiting to be reawakened."

She touches his chin, turning him to face her. Her eyes, which seemed so far away in the mirror, are now only inches from his. They are hypnotic and overpowering.

"Anata wa randamu de wa nai, Cam," she says. "Anata wa interijento ni sekkei sa rete imasu."

And Cam knows what she's saying. You are not random, Cam. You are intelligently designed. He has no idea what language it is, but he knows what it means, all the same.

"Every part of you was handpicked from the best and the brightest," Roberta tells him, "and I was there at each unwinding, so you would see me, hear me, and know me once all the parts were united." She takes a moment to think about it, and sadly shakes her head. "Those poor kids were too dysfunctional to know how to use the gifts they were given-but now, even divided, they can finally be complete through you!"

Now that she speaks of unwinding, fragments of memories flood him.

Yes, he had seen her!

Standing beside the operating table without as much as a surgical mask to cover her face, because the point, he now realizes, was for her to be seen and remembered. But it wasn't just one operating room, was it?

An identical memory from dozens of different places in his mind.

But it's not his mind, is it?

It's their minds.

All of them.

Crying out.

Please, please make this stop, until there is no voice to beg, no mind to scream.

At that singular moment When "I am" becomes "I'm not . . ."

He takes a deep, shuddering breath. Those final memories are a part of him now, spliced together, like the skin of his face. The memories are impossible to bear, and yet he bears them. Only now does he realize how strong he truly must be to hold the memory of a hundred unwindings without crumbling to nothing.

Roberta bids him to look around at the wealthy spoils of the cliffside mansion. "As you can see by your surroundings, we have very powerful backing to support you, so that you may continue to grow and prosper."

"Backing? From who?"

"It doesn't matter who. They're friends. Not just your friends, but friends of a world we all want to live in."

And though it is all beginning to come together, his whole life beginning to slide into place, one thing still plagues him.

"My face . . . it's horrible . . ."

"Not to worry," Roberta says. "The scars will heal-in fact, the healing agents are already taking effect. Soon those scars will vanish completely, leaving the faintest of lines where the grafts meet. Trust me on this; I've seen the projection of what you will look like, Cam, and it is spectacular!"

He traces his fingers along the scars on his face. They are not as random as he had thought. They are symmetrical, the different skin tones forming a pattern. A design.

"It was a choice we made to give you a piece of every ethnicity. From the palest sienna-Caucasian, to the darkest umber tones of unspoiled Africa, and everything in between. Hispanic, Asian, Islander, Native, Australoid, Indian, Semitic-a glorious mosaic of humanity! You are everyman, Cam, and the truth of it is evident in your face. I promise you, when those scars heal, you will be the new definition of handsome! You will be a shining beacon, the greatest hope for the human race. You will show them that, Cam! By the mere virtue of your existence, you will show them!"

As he thinks of this, his heart accelerates, pounding powerfully in his chest. He imagines all the races this heart of his has won-and although he has no memory of being a star swimmer, his heart knows what his mind does not. It longs to be in the pool once more, just as his legs long for the track.

Right now, however, those legs buckle beneath him, and he finds himself on the ground, wondering how he got there.

"Too much stimulation for one day," Roberta says.

The guards, who have been watching from the door, race in and help him up.

"Are you all right, sir? Should we call for help, ma'am?"

"That won't be necessary. I'll tend to him."

They bring him to a plush sofa. He's shivering now, not just from the chill in the air, but from the revelation of knowing his own personal truth. Roberta grabs a throw blanket and covers him. She orders the room be made warmer, and she sits beside him like a mother comforting a feverish child.

"There are big plans for you, Cam. But you don't have to worry about that now. Right now, all you have to do is build that amazing potential; rope in all those parts of your mind that are still stray; teach every part of your body to work in concert. You are the conductor of a living orchestra, and the music you're going to make will be beyond spectacular!"

"What if it's not?" he asks.

Roberta leans over, kissing him gently on the forehead. "Simply not an option."

ADVERTIs.e.m.e.nT.

"When I lost my job, bills and debt began to pile up, and I didn't know what to do. I didn't think there was any way to provide for my family. I even thought about going to an offsh.o.r.e harvest facility and dividing myself on the black market to pay for my family's expenses, but the black market scared me. Well, at last there's a proposition on the ballot to legalize voluntary adult unwinding-something that would provide my family with money enough to survive. Imagine that! I could enter the divided state with peace of mind, knowing my family would be provided for-and by legalizing it, the black marketers will be put out of business. Vote yes on Prop 58! Help families like mine, and put an end to parts pirateering."

Paid for by the National Alliance of Donor Advocates Cam's dreams are always lucid. He always knows that he's dreaming, and until now his dreams have been a source of intense frustration. They don't follow dream logic-they don't follow any logic-they are disjointed, disconnected, and confused. Snippets of randomness strung together by the cobweb of his unconscious mind. His dreams feel like channel surfing through mental stations so quickly, it's impossible to grasp the concept of any one thought-byte. Maddening! However, now that he knows the nature of his being, Cam finds that he's able to ride the wave.

Tonight he dreams he's in a mansion. Not the one overlooking the ocean, but one in the clouds. As he moves from room to room, it's not just the decor that changes, but the world as well-or rather, the life he's living within that world. In a kitchen, there are siblings he recognizes sitting at a table waiting for dinner. In a living room, a father asks him a question in a language that didn't make it into his brain, so he can't answer.

And then there are the hallways-long hallways with rooms on either side, containing people he knows but only slightly. These are rooms he will never enter, and those people will never be more than images, trapped in those rooms. No further memory of them exists, or at least not within the cortical tissue he received.

In each room and hallway he moves through, Cam feels an intense surge of loss, but it's balanced by the antic.i.p.ation of the many rooms ahead.

At the end of the dream, he finds a final door opening on a balcony with no railing. He stands at the edge, looking down into billowing clouds below, shredded and reformed by the forces of some sentient wind. Within him a hundred voices-the voices of those who are a part of him-all speak to him, but their many voices have blurred into an unintelligible rumble. Still, he knows what they're trying to tell him. Jump, Cam, jump! they're saying. Jump, because we know you can fly!

In the morning, still high from the dream, Cam pushes himself harder than he ever had before in physical therapy. He feels the burn in his muscles now rather than the strain on his healing wounds.

"You're at the top of your game today," Kenny tells him as he treats Cam's joints with a repeating cycle of ice and heat to speed the healing. Kenny, Cam has learned, was a top trainer for the NFL, but the powerful friends of whom Roberta spoke hired him to train a single client, offering him top dollar.

"Money talks," Kenny had to admit. "Besides, it's not every day you get to be part of history in the making."

Is that what I am? Cam thinks. Future history? He tries to imagine the name Camus Composite-Prime taught in future cla.s.srooms, but it doesn't stick. It's the name. It sounds too clinical, like the subject of an experiment rather than the result. He ought to shorten it. Camus ComPri. The images of race cars speeding around a bend soars through his mind. The Grand Prix. That's it! Camus Comprix. Silent S, silent X-a name that holds as many secrets as he!

He grimaces as Kenny ices his shoulder, but today, even that pain feels good.

"Pie-marathon, no more basket!" he says, then clears his throat and allows the thought to congeal, gathering the proper words. "This marathon I'm on . . . now it's as easy as pie. Not feeling wasted at all."

Kenny laughs. "Didn't I tell you it'd get easier?"

This afternoon Cam sits on the balcony with Roberta, and they're served lunch on silver trays. Each day the foods have greater variety, but they're always in small portions. Shrimp c.o.c.ktail. Beet salad. Chicken curry with couscous. All delicious challenges to his taste buds, sparking micro-memories and forcing neural connections to accompany his acute senses of taste and smell.

"All a part of your healing," Roberta tells him as they eat. "All a part of your growth."

After lunch, they sit for their daily ritual before the digital tabletop, taking in images to stimulate his visual memory. The images are more complicated now. Nothing so easy as the Eiffel Tower or a fire truck. There are obscure works of art that Cam must identify-if not the actual work, then at least the artist. Scenes from plays.

"Who is the character?"

"Lady Macbeth."

"What is she doing?"

"I don't know."

"Then make something up. Use your imagination."

There are images of people in various walks of life, and Roberta asks Cam to imagine who they might be. What they might be thinking. Roberta doesn't allow him to speak until he has taken a moment to find the proper words.

"Man on a train. Wondering what's waiting at home for dinner. Probably chicken again. He's sick of chicken."

Then, amid the pictures strewn across the computer tabletop, Cam sees an image of a girl that catches his attention. Roberta follows his eyes to the image, and she immediately tries to wipe the image away, but Cam grabs her hand and stops her.

"No. Let me see."

Reluctantly Roberta takes her hand from the image. Cam drags it toward him, rotates it, and enlarges it. He can tell the picture was not taken with the girl's permission. It's framed at an odd angle. Perhaps taken secretly. A memory flashes. This same girl. On a bus.

"That picture is not supposed to be here," Roberta says. "Can we move on now?"