General Bodeker, for all of his ire at the use of the word “boeuf” for military youth, apparently had no problem skirting euphemisms and calling Cam’s internal community “parts.”

Cam does not know who to despise more—Bodeker for having purchased his quantified flesh, Proactive Citizenry for selling it, or Roberta for willing him into existence. Cam continues to stare at the back of his door. Hanging there—strategically placed by some unknown entity while he was out—is the full dress uniform of a US Marine, shiny buttons and all. Crisp, just as Roberta had said.

Is this a threat, Cam wonders, or an enticement?

Cam says nothing about it to Roberta when he goes down for dinner. Since their meeting with the senator and the general last week, all their meals have been alone in the town house, as if being ignored by powerful people is somehow punishment.

At the end of the meal, the housekeeper brings in a silver tea service, setting it down between them—because Roberta, an expat Brit, must still have her Earl Grey.

It’s over tea that Roberta gives him the news. “I need to tell you something,” Roberta says after her first sip. “But I need you to promise that you’ll control your temper.”

“That’s never a good way to begin a conversation,” he says. “Try again. This time full of springtime and daisies.”

Roberta takes a deep breath, sets down her cup, and gets it out. “Your request to sign your own document has been denied by the court.”

Cam feels his meal wanting to come back, but he holds it down. “So the courts say I don’t exist. Is that what you’re telling me? That I’m an object like”—he picks up a spoon—“like a utensil? Or am I more like this teapot?” He drops the spoon and grabs the pot from the table. “Yes, that’s it—an articulate teapot screeching with hot air that no one wants to hear!”

Roberta pushes her chair back with a complaint from the hardwood floor. “You promised to keep your temper!”

“No—you asked, and I refuse!”

He slams the teapot down, and a flood of Earl Grey ejects from the spout, soaking the white tablecloth. The housekeeper, who was lurking, makes herself scarce.

“It’s a legal definition, nothing more!” insists Roberta. “I, for one, know that you’re more than that stupid definition.”

“Sweatshop!” snaps Cam, and not even Roberta can decipher that one. “Your opinion means nothing, because you’re little more than the sweatshop seamstress who stitched me together.”

Indignation rises in her like an ocean swell. “Oh, I’m a little more than that!”

“Are you going to tell me you’re my creator? Shall I sing psalms of praise to thee? Or better yet, why don’t I cut out my stolen heart and put it on an altar for you?”

“Enough!”

Cam slumps in his chair, a twisted rag of directionless anger.

Roberta puts down her napkin to help blot the tea, a task beyond the abilities of the tablecloth. Cam wonders if the tablecloth would resent the napkin’s absorbency were it legally granted personhood.

“There’s something you need to see,” Roberta says. “Something you need to understand that might give you some perspective on this.”

She gets up, goes into the kitchen, and returns with a pen and a blank piece of paper. She sits down beside him, folds back the tablecloth, and puts the paper down on a dry patch of wood.

“I want you to sign your name.”

“What for?”

“You’ll see.”

Too disgusted to argue, he takes the pen, looks down at the paper, and writes as neatly as he can “Camus Comprix.”

“Good. Now turn the paper over and sign it again.”

“Your point?”

“Humor me.”

He flips the paper, but before he signs, Roberta stops him. “Don’t look,” she says. “This time look at me while you’re signing. And talk to me too.”

“About what?”

“Whatever is in your heart to say.”

Looking at Roberta, he signs his name while delivering an appropriate quote from his namesake: “The need to be right is the sign of a vulgar mind.” Then he hands the page to Roberta. “There. Are you happy?”

“Why don’t you look at the signature, Cam?”

He looks down. At first he thinks he sees his signature as it should be. But a switch seems to flick in his head, and the signature he sees is not his at all. “What is this? This isn’t what I wrote.”

“It is, Cam. Read it.”

The letters are a bit scrawled. Wil Tash . . . Tashi . . .”

“Wil Tashi’ne,” Roberta says. “You have his hands, and his corresponding neuro-motor centers in your cerebellum, as well as crucial cortical material as well. You see. It’s his neural connections and muscle memory that allow you to play guitar and accomplish a whole host of fine-motor skills.”

Cam cannot look away from the signature. The switch in his head keeps flicking on and off. My signature. Not my signature. Mine. Not mine.

Roberta regards him with infinite sympathy. “How can you sign a document, Cam, when not even your signature belongs to you?”

• • •

Roberta hates when Cam goes out alone, especially at night, but on this night, there’s nothing she can say or do that will stop him.

He strides fast, down a street still wet with the day’s rain, but feels like he’s getting nowhere. He doesn’t even know where he wants to go—only away from whatever spot he occupies at the moment, unable to feel right in his own skin. What is it the advertisements call it? That’s right—Biosystemic Disunification Disorder. A bogus condition that conveniently can be cured only by unwinding.

All his scheming, all his daydreams of bringing down Proactive Citizenry—of being the kind of hero Risa requires—it all amounts to nothing if he is just a piece of military property. And Roberta’s wrong. It’s more than just a legal definition. How can she not see that when you are defined, you lose the ability to define yourself? In the end he will become that definition. He will become a thing.

What he needs is some sort of proclamation of existence that trumps anything legal. Something he can hold on to in his heart in the face of anything they have on paper. Risa could give that to him. He knows she can, but she’s not here, is she?

But there might be other places he could find it.

He begins to scour his memory, seeking out moments that ring with a spiritual connection. He had First Communion, a Bar Mitzvah, and a Bismillah ceremony. He saw a brother baptized in a Greek Orthodox church and a grandmother cremated in a traditional Buddhist funeral. Just about every faith is represented in his memories, and he wonders if this was intentional. He wouldn’t put it past Roberta to have, as part of her criteria for his parts, that all major religions be represented. She’s just that anal.

But which one will give him what he needs? He knows if he speaks to a rabbi or a Buddhist priest, he’ll get very wise responses that point to more questions instead of an answer. “Do we exist because others perceive our existence, or is, indeed, our own affirmation enough?”

No. What Cam needs is some meat-and-potatoes dogma that can give him a concrete yes or no.

There’s a Catholic church a few blocks away. An old one with impressive stained-glass windows. He puts together from his internal community a sizeable posse of believers—enough to give him a sense of reverence and awe as he steps into the sanctuary.

There are a few people present. Mass is over, and confessions are winding down. Cam knows what he has to do.

• • •

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

“Tell me your sins, child.”

“I’ve broken things. I’ve stolen things. Electronics. A car—maybe two. I may have become violent with a girl once. I’m not sure.”

“You’re not sure? How could you not be sure?”

“None of my memories are complete.”

“Son, you can confess only to the things you remember.”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Father. I have no complete memories. Just bits and pieces.”

“Well, I’ll accept your confession, but it sounds like you need something more than the sacrament of the confessional.”

“It’s because the memories are from other people.”

“ . . .”

“Did you hear me?”

“So you’ve received bits of the unwound?”

“Yes, but—”

“Son, you can’t be held responsible for the acts of a mind that isn’t yours, any more than you can be responsible for the acts of a grafted hand.”

“I have a couple of those, too.”

“Excuse me?”

“My name is Camus Comprix. Does that name mean anything to you?”

“ . . .”

“I said my name is—”

“—yes, yes, I heard you, I heard you. I’m just surprised you’re here.”

“Because I’m soulless?”

“Because I very rarely hear confessions from public figures.”

“Is that what I am? A public figure?”

“Why are you here, son?”

“Because I’m afraid. I’m afraid that I might not . . . be . . . .”

“Your presence here proves you exist.”

“But as what? I need you to tell me that I’m not a spoon! That I’m not a teapot!”

“You make no sense. Please, there are people waiting.”

“No! This is important! I need you to tell me . . . . I need to know . . . if I qualify as a human being.”

“You must know that the church has not taken an official position on unwinding.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

“Yes, yes, I know it’s not. I know. I know.”

“In your opinion as a man of the cloth . . .”

“You ask too much of me. I am here to give absolution, nothing more.”

“But you have an opinion, don’t you?”

“ . . .”

“When you first heard of me?”

“ . . .”

“What was that opinion, Father?”

“It is neither my place to say, nor your place to ask!”

“But I do ask!”

“It is not to your benefit to hear!”

“Then you’re being tested, Father. This is your test: Will you tell the truth, or will you lie to me in your own confessional?”

“My opinion . . .”

“Yes . . .”

“My opinion . . . was that your arrival in this world marked the end of all things we hold dear. But that opinion was borne of fear and ignorance. I admit that! And today I see the awful reflection of my own petty judgments. Do you understand?”

“ . . .”

“I confess that I am humbled by your question. How can I speak to whether or not you carry a divine spark?”

“A simple yes or no will do.”

“No one on earth can answer that question, Mr. Comprix—and you should run from anyone who claims they can.”