It happened over the course of the next eight months, by a process Swan could neither chart nor predict.

He became, on a level sufficiently deep to pass mostly out of conscious scrutiny, his new self.

In his own eyes and his adopted family's.

What caused the merger was nothing other than simple daily repetition, the hourly unrelenting enactment of a good lie engineered by the State. The continuous make-believe, bolstered by a mostly willing shared suspension of disbelief, eventually solidified into reality. Under the sustained subtle assault of the mundane and the quotidian, the blandishments of the hundred bland rituals and the shared demands of a thousand niggling decisions, reality conformed to imagination.

What greased the way was a desperate willingness to succeed on the part of Swan and Emma, a loneliness and void, shaped differently in each, yet reciprocal, that eagerly accepted any wholesome psychic fill.

The path to the merger was made of uncountable little things.

Swan had very few clothes to call his own. It was only natural for him to use those of the man who had preceded him. They fit remarkably well, a fact the Renormalization Board had doubtlessly reckoned with.

Will enjoyed making models out of the new memory clay for children. Swan discovered a facility for shaping that allowed him and the boy to spend some quiet hours together.

His sister-in-law Sally, having overcome the hurdle of meeting him early on, was a frequent visitor. With her husband, Al, and their daughters, Melinda and Michelle, the two families went places the movies, picnics, amusement parks, the beach. Apparently, reports back to the rest of Swan's new relatives were encouraging enough that the massive multifamily get-together held each Labor Day did not have to be cancelled this sad, strange year.

At the outdoor gathering Swan's head spun from greeting so many familiar strangers, from heat and sun and the usual overindulgences of food and drink. But by day's end, he had earned high accolades from Emma.

"They liked you. And you fit right in."

Emma.

She taught him to drive. They shopped for groceries together, went to conferences at Will's daycare together, watched endless hours of television side by side on the couch, apart at first, then holding hands, then her in his arms.

But each night, even after a year, Swan slept in his bed, and she in hers.

Swan had been paired with a guy named Charlie Sproul for several months. Charlie was fairly silent and self-contained, not very friendly. It wasn't like working with Tony. Swan tried to make the best of it though.

One afternoon in the locker room, Swan was surprised when Charlie and a couple of other linemen asked him out for a drink.

He accepted.

"I'll just call home," Swan said.

"Don't bother," said Charlie. "We won't be long."

They drove in their cars to a part or town Swan didn't know. The bar was a rundown place called The Garden. Flickerpaint scrawls on the windowless walls teased Swan's peripheral vision.

At the threshold, Swan sniffed. The place smelled bad inside, like some kind of subterranean den or tunnel, half familiar in a dreamlike way that made him very uneasy.

But Swan told himself he was being foolish, and went in.

The room was hot and noisy and smoky; the conversation was boring and felt contrived. Midway through his second beer, Swan began to prepare excuses for leaving. But then his fellow linemen said they wanted to play pool. Swan didn't play, so he said he'd stay at the bar and watch.

As soon as his coworkers had crossed the room, leaving Swan alone, several strange men drifted up and stood around him.

"Hey, egghead," one said. "Yeah, you--the guy with the egg thing in his head. How's it feel to steal someone's life?"

Swan felt a line of heat high up around his brow like a hot wire tightening into his skin, a sharp crown. He stood up, but there was no room to move. The barstool pressed against the back of his legs.

Swan's mouth had dried up. "I don't know what you're talking about..."

"We're talking about how the wrong guy died. It should have been--"

The man spoke a name Swan vaguely recognized. The mention of the name left him genuinely confused. They were talking about someone he no longer knew, someone who didn't exist anymore. "I don't understand. My name is Glen Swan."

The men laughed cruelly. "He really believes it!"

"He's a fried egghead!"

Swan tried to push his tormentors aside. "Let me go. I don't need this!"

"No, you need this!" one said, and swung a heavy fist into his stomach. Swan doubled over.

Then he was submerged in a flood of punches and kicks.

He called for help, but no one came, none of his new "friends."

He felt consciousness slipping away.

But he was pretty sure he managed to black out naturally and on his own, without the help of the EGA.