Lyle got in line at a register, and when he reached the front the cashier looked up at him in relief.
“Oh good, you came back. Here it is.”
“What?”
She handed him a credit card. “You’ve got to be more careful with that, you could get your identity stolen.”
“This isn’t mine.” Lyle looked at the name: Christopher Page. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it. “This isn’t mine.”
“You were just here,” said the cashier, “you just bought some…” She pointed at his groceries in the basket, confused. “Some brussels sprouts. Are you buying more?”
“Excuse me!” said a man, puffing breathlessly as he jogged up to the register, “I forgot my credit card.” Lyle looked at him and shivered.
He looked almost exactly like Lyle.
The cashier looked at the newcomer, then at Lyle, then back again. “Whoa,” she said, “that’s freaky.”
Their clothes were different, of course, and their haircuts, and the newcomer was heavier than Lyle, though not by much. What matched were the faces—the same shape of nose, the same color of eyes, the same general form to the features. The eyes were the same shape, as well, and the same deep green, but the newcomer’s were solid while Lyle had a heterochromia in his right eye—a small patch of amber on the green iris. He saw it in the mirror every day; he’d had it since he was born.
It was disconcerting to see his own face, so close yet so uncannily different. They didn’t look like twins, maybe not even fraternal twins, but they could certainly be mistaken for brothers.
Lyle held out the card. “I take it you’re Christopher Page?”
“Thanks,” said the man, then stopped, staring at Lyle’s face. “Are you … Dr. Fontanelle?”
Lyle peered at the man more closely, his stomach suddenly queasy. “Do I know you?”
“You don’t ‘know me’ know me,” said Page, “but we met last month, at the NewYew building. I was in the lotion test.”
“Are you brothers?” asked the cashier.
“We’re not…” Lyle paused, still staring at Page. “I’m very sorry, I don’t remember you. Were you in the 14G test?”
“I’ve lost a ton of weight since then,” said Page, slapping himself in the stomach. “Pretty great, huh?”
“How do you not remember him?” asked the cashier. “He looks exactly like you.”
“It’s the weight,” said Page again, smiling at the cashier. “You didn’t see me before—I had a face like a side of beef. Take that all away and I … well, I guess I do look kind of like you, Dr. Fontanelle. That’s an honor. I’d never noticed before.”
“Wild,” said the cashier. “Thirty-two dollars and forty-eight cents.”
Lyle absently handed her his credit card, never taking his eyes off the uncanny mirror image in front of him. Christopher Page, his memory finally informed him, had been the large man, the greasy-faced man. He remembered the name because they’d paid special attention to the way the lotion reacted to his oily skin.
It had only been a few weeks—nobody lost weight that fast. Lyle’s scientific curiosity took over, and he spoke without thinking: “Did you have a … bypass? Like a surgery?” He immediately felt guilty for asking such a forward question.
Christopher smiled proudly, evidently too proud to be offended. “Nope, just exercise. I’ve lost fifty pounds.”
The cashier handed Lyle his card and bags, subtly pushing him out of the lane. “Thanks for coming to Pathmark.”
Lyle followed Christopher to the front wall, staring. “You’ve lost fifty pounds in three weeks? That doesn’t happen with just exercise.”
“Well, I’ve been working on it for a while,” said Christopher, “it’s just that it finally kicked in for some reason. I could barely fit in my chair at the product test, but now look at me!”
“That’s … great.”
“Here,” said Christopher, digging eagerly into his back pocket, “here’s my business card, I sell HVAC systems. You want anything done, I’ll give you a great deal.”
“Yeah,” said Lyle slowly, “thanks.” Losing all of that weight must have exposed more of the underlying bone structure, he thought. He looks completely different. “Have you been sick?”
“Not really,” said Christopher, shaking his head. “Pooping like a champion, I guess, and drinking like a man in a desert. I ride an exercise bike for twenty minutes every morning—that’s thirsty work.”
Lyle snapped to attention, staring at the man’s too-familiar face. Jon Ford’s friend had said the same thing about him: heightened thirst and increased defecation. Lyle kept his face passive. “Have you had any pains? Trouble breathing? Numbness on your left side?”
“Not at all.”
Lyle pursed his lips, nodding. It’s probably nothing. I’m just creeped out from thinking he looked so much like me, and it’s getting to me. He picked up his bags. “I’ve got to get going, but it was nice to see you.”
“You’ve got my card,” said Christopher, calling after him. “And let me know when that lotion comes out—I’ll tell all my friends!”
8
Friday, April 27
NewYew headquarters, Manhattan
231 DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD
