by Sylvan Scott
“Awkward” was the word Wiste used during the drive back. “Infuriating” is what Anthony chose. While the first half hour had been in stony silence the second was as much like stone as a volcanic eruption.
“It’s mocking me; that thing’s dangerous!”
“He’s got a life,” Wiste was using his calm voice. “He’s a creation, sure, but he’s been changing … growing; isn’t that understandable?”
After they passed Elgin, the argument grew increasingly heated until, with a slam of the car door, Anthony stormed out of his mother’s Kia, up the walk, past his father (still working on the tree), and into the house. Wiste’s calm voice infuriated him. His concerns were reasonable. How could Wiste not see that? How differently would Wiste—would anyone—handle having a double? Having a toy suddenly come to life and want to be “a real boy” was like a betrayal of his childhood.
“He’s remarkably like you,” Wiste had said during the drive. “I’m not saying I’m taking his side but can’t you see where he’s coming from?”
“It’s nothing like me! I mean, yeah, sure: it looks like me, but it’s not really like me! It hasn’t lived my life; it’s just copied it!”
His identity was at stake. If someone—if something—could so effortlessly mimic him, what did that say about his uniqueness? The changeling hadn’t even seen him in years and yet it had the same vocal inflections, the same mannerisms, the same walk, the same eyes, the same hairstyle. How had it managed the same hairstyle?
It didn’t matter; none of the questions whirling through his mind mattered.
He had to go end this.
Tomorrow he’d have to fix things.
Tomorrow he’d go back.