HIS EYES ARE DARK and void of emotion. 

     He isn't Felix. He might have his face, but he can't be Felix. 

     Felix was life itself; he was always smiling, laughing, or telling a joke. He would roll on his tacky yellow rug with Mercy—his large St. Bernard—and let her sleep in his bed at night. He liked mismatched fuzzy socks and ugly sweaters with unraveling threads. Felix was a unique rich-kid; he never let his parents' wealth define who he was—in fact, he kind of rebelled against everything they stood for. 

     He had so much love and affection for everything and everyone.

      I am seventeen-years-old, it was only six months ago that I was in Felix's arms. I miss that love so much. Everything inside me aches now.

      The boy with Felix's face stands in front of a widespread glass wall that overlooks the glistening snow-covered forests. He looks like a grim reaper; black shirt, shoes, jacket, and black eyes. All still, motionless and observing me.

      The room we stand together in is massive and sparsely decorated with expensive fuzzy brown chairs and Icelandic wood furniture. The floor is made of hard, gray rough-cut stones. It's far too clean, medically clean. There isn't a single speck of dust on his desk or his laptop. It didn't feel like Felix's room at all.

      "You're my girlfriend?" he asks softly. His voice is so smooth and haunting. "At least, that's what my parents said."

      I swallow down the hard lump in my throat. I grip my backpack against my chest so tight to keep my heart from bursting out of my chest. I can't keep back the floodgates on my tears so I let them just roll down my face.

      "No," I say and my voice cracks. "I was Felix's girlfriend."

      The boy looks confused. "But . . . I am Felix."

      There are clear rules in the new world we live in. Before I stepped foot into the Paulsen Manor hidden in the mountaintops of Colorado, I signed a non-disclosure agreement and a contract that had an indefinite expiration on it. I didn't read all the fine print, but I did read one rule really clearly: Never reveal to patient Felix Torsten Paulsen that he died.

      I say nothing and keep matching his stare with my own.

      "I do not remember you," he says and looks a little troubled about it.

      I nod, surprised I can even keep my own head up. "It's better that way."

      "And you are . . . ?" he asks.

      I clear my throat and try to not sound as broken as I feel. "I am Margaret Rae Park, but no one calls me Margaret they call me—"

      "Maggie," he quickly finishes for me.

      I hate it because he sounds just like Felix.

      "Maggie . . . " he repeats.

      "Stop that!" I snap at him and then realize that he has no clue why I'm upset. "Sorry. You can call me Margaret."

     He seats himself in the largest fuzzy chair in the room and looks like a dark prince on this throne. His hand extends as he points to a seat in front of him. "No, I'm the one who is sorry, I feel like I remember you. My parents informed me that I was in an accident and have amnesia. They believe you being here could be therapeutic for me, but I guess for you it feels like talking to a stranger."

     I smile morbidly and take the offered seat. "You have no idea."

     We study one another quietly for a few minutes. There is a soft humming sound of the heat pouring into the room and a faint smell of chemical cleansers. I lift my hand to protect my nose.

     "I'm sorry about the smell, we can't open windows here. I have a weak immune system, I'm not sure I understand all the details, but my parents and doctors say it will take time before I'm able to leave this house," he says.

     I nod because I'm already aware of all of this. The Paulsens insisted that I was thoroughly vaccinated and disinfected before I stepped into his room. If I had so much as a light cough they never would have let me see him. I complied with everything, but for what?

      I grip onto the arms of my seat and force the strength to handle this moment. I have a reason for being here and until I gather more information I won't let myself leave.

      "I have a lot of questions," he says with wide, curious eyes.

      "I can't promise that I can answer them." Mostly because I signed away any right to tell him the truth.

     "Can you tell me how we met?" he asks with no emotion. His voice is so dull, he's like a computer program needing input.

     "It's complicated," I say and fold my hands into the center of my lap. "It's going to take a while to explain everything."

     "I can't even leave my room, Mag—" he stops himself and then tries again. "—Margaret. I have nothing, but time."

     He leans back, comfortable, and patiently ready for me to tell him our history. None of his mannerisms even match with Felix. Why are his parents trying to convince me so strongly that this is him? I wanted to see Felix, but this isn't Felix, I know it. I feel it.

     This person is just like Cindy. . .