I need a shower, badly. I’m greasy and disheveled. I’ve never felt so angered, so disrespected.

This feeling has been growing since Terrance entered our lives, and it’s become a constant concern since Hen suggested I didn’t have to do everything this man said. Why am I allowing him to control me? I’m still in my house. I haven’t gone anywhere yet. I should have seen this before. Now it’s all I can see. Hen has been trying to tell me something. I know that. I know there’s more she wants to tell me, but she won’t. Or she can’t. I’m understanding more and more every day. Every hour. Every minute.

This is all for Hen, Junior. Remember that. We want the replacement to be as authentic and real as possible, he said.

The sweat is pouring off me. I’m standing in the bathroom, trying to collect my thoughts and understand what’s happening, and what I can do, what actions I can take. I’m not sure we should spend another night in this house with Terrance. He’s a threat. He’s our enemy.

But if we did leave, then what? Would he follow us? Probably, yes. He would follow us just as I was followed that day that I went out to the field and found that burning barn. He would find us. They would find us. OuterMore. Whatever it is. No, we can’t leave. That would only make things worse.

Does she tell you what she likes? he said.

I need to think. Or I need to stop thinking. I’m not sure which is best. I want to forget about the interviews. Forget about Terrance. Try to sleep. Reassess in the morning. I turn on the shower, the hot water, and take off the few clothes I’m wearing.

I don’t get in right away. I stand naked in front of the mirror. I raise my good arm up above my head. I flex my biceps. I hold the pose, straining. I flex my abs as tight as I can. I turn from side to side, examining my obliques.

You’re free to go, he said.

I wipe the condensation that’s fogged up the glass. My face is now only a few inches from the mirror. I flare my nostrils. I open my eyes as wide as they’ll go. I’m a flawed, disgusting person like everyone else. Broken and imperfect. Of course I am. How could I ever think I was any different?

I hold my eyes wide until they start to hurt. I hold them like that longer. I hold them like that until my eyes start to tear up.

Terrance wants to know too much. He wants to know everything about me. He will never know everything about me. I’ve been good to Hen. What would her life have been like if we’d never met? I could have had others if that’s what I wanted. I don’t care if we fight. This is her life. This is where she lives. With me. Clearly, she’s chosen this life. She’s chosen me. Which means she is happy. The way things are.

The mirror has fogged up again. I use my index finger to draw a picture of a beetle in the condensation. I do it slowly, my hand squeaking against the wet surface. I know what Terrance is planning when he sends me away to the Installation, when he takes over my life. He wants to move from the guest room down the hall into my bedroom. He wants to know me so he can be me. But that will never happen. He’ll never be me.

I step into the shower. I hold my face up to the water.

Even with the shower on, I can hear talking from Terrance’s room. His room is right next door. It’s Hen. She’s in there now with him. I can’t decipher what they’re talking about. I move closer to the tiled wall, but still can’t hear any better. What are they talking about? I turn the hot water on more, until it’s nearly scorching. It’s me. I’m sure they’re talking about me. They’re obsessed with me.

When I can’t take it any longer, I turn off the shower and step out onto the mat to dry. I’m being careful while drying my bad shoulder. My bad shoulder. The reason I can’t sleep in my own bed with Hen. The reason I have to sleep sitting up, alone, downstairs. The reason why it’s so easy for Terrance to step in, to get closer and closer to Hen.

I turn around in front of the mirror so I can inspect my shoulder. I don’t know why, but I’ve never looked at it since the accident. Why did it never occur to me to examine it? There’s a dressing on it, the same one that’s been on there since the accident. It hasn’t been changed.

I pick at the tape holding the dressing on. I slowly lift it. I take my time, removing all four pieces of tape. I let the dressing fall to the floor. I run my hand over the skin underneath. The smooth skin. There’s no scar on my shoulder. No indication of any injury. My skin is unblemished. No stitches. No mark.

It was Terrance who said it. I know he did. The day I woke up after the accident. He told me the doctor had a performed a “minor procedure.” What kind of procedure, even the least serious, wouldn’t leave some kind of scar? If there was no cut, why was the bandage on at all?

There’s a knock on the door. I put my foot over the bandage on the floor.

Who is it? I call.

“It’s me,” Hen says.

She opens the door halfway. “Are you almost done? You’ve been in here forever.”

I was taking a shower, I say. You off to bed?

“Yeah,” she says. “Come say good night before you go.”

Sure, I say. You got it.

I close the door behind her. Then I move back to the mirror and stand there for a while, looking at my shoulder, my back, my neck, my arms. The sensors he applied to collect data are still intact.

I don’t know how long I stand like this. Until I’ve seen enough. Until I’ve dripped completely dry. My towel is untouched on the hook on the back of the door.