One Sunday, my doorbell rang. My arthritis was particularly painful that morning, so it took me a few minutes to get to the door. When I opened it, he introduced himself as Davy. He wore a black suit, shiny shoes, and a Rolex, topped off with a headful of gelled hair.
"May I come in?"
Of course he could. I can't really explain why – I suppose I'd never seen a man with black eyes before – but I opened the door right away. He glided into the living room and sat on the couch, opening his briefcase.
"I'll try to be brief. I represent Fresh Start, Incorporated. We're a small company specializing in volition transplant."
"I've heard of you."
"I'm sure you have. But like most people, you probably don't know exactly what we do. Fresh Start's neurosurgeons have the ability to exchange your consciousness – your will, your memory, everything that makes you you – with that of another consenting adult."
I frowned. "Why would I want to do that?"
"Our best customers come from your age group, sir. Many in their golden years decide to exchange their bodies for those of younger men or women."
Of course. I should have thought of that. I was having a few problems myself. The arthritis was getting pretty bad, and according to my doctor, I was looking at death by lung cancer in a few years. "I need to think. Let me call you in a couple of days."
He thanked me and left.
I reread the brochures he gave me over and over. Watched the informational video twice. The procedure only took a few hours, and had no recovery time. They provided excellent "reentry services": basically, Fresh Start would guarantee that my new body didn't "catch your family, friends, or coworkers off guard." It looked foolproof.
Was I too hasty? I only know that my eyes skimmed over some fine print, and perhaps flitted across a few warnings too quickly. I know the brochures inspired powerful emotions in me, not least of all hope, which may have stifled my reason. I know that I was on the phone with Davy just two days later, telling him I wanted to do it.
The next day, he showed up in my driveway in a black van. I got in, and we drove to Fresh Start together. It was a tall building, with mirrored windows so that no one could see inside. We entered, walked to the operating room. I was put under anesthesia, and the transplant was performed.
I awoke in a padded cell, wearing a straitjacket. There was a window on the far wall. A shutter rose, and I saw Davy standing behind it. He raised a microphone to his mouth. His normally calm brow was furrowed. The loudspeaker chirped, "something went wrong."
Then, from the depths of my mind, I heard a thought that wasn't mine. A whisper: "This is my brain. Get out!" And then wave after wave of terror, as we struggled for control.