A figure filled the doorway to my office, but I didn't look up to see who it was. I figured it was Molina,

coming to get me for lunch. I continued writing for a moment, aware of the figure, waiting for

them to say something. But then the figure stepped into the room and made a sound, like he was trying

to say something,

but couldn't quite get it out.

Even that little noise sent chills up my spine.

It was familiar, and right away something deep in my mind told me that it was wrong.

I stopped writing and looked up, bringing my eyes up to meet my own confused face.

I opened my mouth to say something, to protest or deny or laugh.

But the only sound that came out was the noise I'd just heard.

It was exactly the same. No, I said, standing up for my desk chair. It wasn't a simple proclamation. It was a plea.

The figure was wearing the exact same clothes as me, a white lab coat, brown slacks, and a maroon button-up shirt. It was a living mirror image,

right down to the small cut I'd made on my neck shaving that morning. While the single word plea

came out of my mouth, this other me, this imposter, shook his head in disbelief.

Help! We both shouted at once. We lunged at each other. This imposter shook his head in disbelief.

Help!

We both shouted at once.

We lunged at each other and were soon locked in a struggle that could have no clear winner.

I pushed him into the wall, knocking down my frame of doctorate degree.

He shoved me back into the desk, toppling the computer monitor.

Glancing over at my door, I saw that Molina had just arrived.

He looked between the two of us with wide eyes and a slack mouth.

...