One evening, the thought of going to sleep (or, put another way, taking his current existence lying down) was too much for Danny.

He lay awake in bed, tossing and turning for almost an hour, before he sighed loudly enough to wake his roommate.

Barrett sat bolt upright, then swiveled his head toward Danny. He wore a significant frown.

"This had better be pretty important," Barrett muttered. "You know that I'm trying to sleep."

"I know," Danny said softly. "It's just that…I can't sleep."

Barrett raised an eyebrow. "There's a lot of that going around these hot summer nights. But you never woke me up before because of it."

"I know" Danny repeated. "And I'm sorry about that: I really am."

"Then spit it out," Barrett told him.

"I can't stand it anymore," Danny vented. "We're told to get good grades, but does that really matter when every day is just like the last?"

"I guess it helps to keep your brain active," Barrett suggested. But both boys knew he was grasping at straws.

"Look, Barrett." Danny continued, "I don't see how I can stand being stuck here another day without at least trying to make my life better. Or at least, different."

"Well, what are you planning? And your secret is safe with me. Say what you will about this shitty place, but at least they don't listen in on all our little talks."

That was a low bar, to be sure, but Danny could at least take some solace in its clearance.

Your secret is safe with me.

Somehow, after all the years they'd spent together in this same room, from toddlerhood to the teenage years, Danny had figured out that if he couldn't trust Barrett, he couldn't trust anybody. Therefore, he needed to believe that his secret was indeed safe with his roommate.

"Well, Barrett," Danny began, "have you ever thought about being someone you're not?"

"All the time," Barrett said. "But I'm still not sure what you're saying."

"I'm saying that if I pretend to be someone else, I could get out of this shit." Danny selected his "choice word" based on the facility's acronym, much like the other boys often did.

Then it seemed to dawn on Barrett. Danny's roommate snorted.

"Are you thinking of getting a fake ID and escaping?"

In response, Danny only grinned. That's what dreams are for, isn't it?

"You can't be serious about this, Danny," Barrett said sharply, lying back down and stretching his legs off the end of the twin bed. "Sure, this sounds like a good idea,until you think about it for like five seconds."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, even if you adopt a false identity, won't it be pretty obvious that Danny Sham is no longer at the Institute? You can't just jet out of here in the middle of the night; it's better guarded than that. And even if you could get away unnoticed, you wouldn't remain unnoticed forever."

Right.

Most of the time, the boys dared to dream together even when the Institute did it's damnedest to dash those dreams. But now Barrett had to be the voice of reason, stating exactly why his roommate's idea was anywhere from implausible to impossible.

Danny hung his head low. "I don't know," he replied. "I have to do something, Barrett. I've gotta try, don't I?"

"Well, you know what that Martina McBride song said, if you want wings like a Charmander or an eagle, your dreams will provide you with that."

Danny sighed, not wanting to go along with that analogy. After all, the song in question was one of the most heartbreaking tunes he'd ever heard.

"But I don't want to live in my dreams," Danny replied morosely. "I want to live for real. Right now we're just surviving."

Barrett shrugged, "Well, if you want to do something crazy like that, I'm not going to stop you. I can't stop you. But if you get in trouble, I'm not responsible."

"Right."

"I'm going back to sleep," Barrett yawned. "I've got a Civics exam tomorrow, which we all know totally matters."

Barrett was snoring within minutes, so Danny took out his laptop, a gift he'd been given by his parents last Christmas. Of course, said parents couldn't be bothered to visit their son for the holiday, so it felt like a slap in the face more than anything. But whatever, the laptop worked, and the Internet was perhaps another world.

Danny had just finished typing his search prompt when he realized that this was unwise. He did not know to what degree the Institute's Wi-Fi network was monitored, but that search was nothing if not potentially damning.

Just to be safe, Danny switched to Incognito Mode, resolving to delete his Google Chrome data when he was done. (Of course, an empty search history could be almost as suspect as a search for how to get a fake ID.) Nonetheless - surfing first, consequences later.

After he launched the search, Danny was faced with the information that obtaining a false identity was illegal except for those in witness protection or undercover police. No shit! That's why I'm in Incognito Mode! He otherwise ignored that pop-up box.

There were also ads for fake ID companies, but they probably led to illegal stuff; or rather, more illegal than what Danny wanted to do. So Danny ignored those, instead choosing a website called The Jeanies - Move That Star!

Perhaps that was an odd way to market the service, but Danny allowed himself no time to question it. Better to take the leap of faith. Information now, consequences later.

Once on the website, ads popped up for all sorts of products, some of them completely unrelated to fake IDs or security. Considering this was Incognito Mode, perhaps that was to be expected. Still, it was more than a little jarring.

In addition to the ads, there was an option to chat live with one of the company's representatives. Danny clicked it right away.

Within seconds, he received a message. The person on the other end, whose profile picture was an image of a man with a very cartoonish mustache and shit-eating smile, had written the following:

Welcome to the wonderful website for our wonderful organization, the Jeanies! I'm Mr. Lewis, the customer support representative! How can I help you today?

Danny gulped. Even if he were on private browsing, the Jeanies would no doubt be aware that his IP address located in Tullamarine, Vermont had visited the website. No amount of deleting his search history would change that, so he might as well tell Mr. Lewis the truth.

I was thinking about getting a fake ID. I looked online and saw that your website was the best way to do that, so that's why I'm contacting you.

Danny waited with bated breath for a response. It did not come for a solid minute, as Mr. Lewis seemed to be carefully weighing how to answer.

Please tell us why you would like a fake ID.

Danny felt the urge to face-palm. Of course, it couldn't be as easy as simply requesting a false identity. Otherwise, it would be all too easy for criminals guilty of far more heinous acts than acquiring fake IDs to hide from the law.

But Mr. Lewis no doubt expected a response, so Danny would provide it. And provide it he did.

I need to escape a bad situation at home.

The customer representative's answer seemed rehearsed, like he'd typed it out hundreds of times before. Which, of course, he probably had.

I am very sorry to hear about your situation. You need not tell me all the details during this conversation, but if we make the decision to grant you the fake ID, we'll need to know certain things.

Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

Like what? Danny replied. And why?

We'll need information like your height and weight, as well as your general hobbies and interests. And we'll need your full name so that an ideal fake name can be generated.

But why?

Because we need to create an identity that will fool anyone from your previous life who tries to contact you.

Danny grimaced. What if I don't want them to try to contact me? What if I want to make sure they don't even look?

A long pause ensured, though the application showed that Mr. Lewis was indeed typing. It was almost two minutes by the time a response showed up on screen. The response read as follows:

If it's that important that nobody looks for you, then we could fake your death. Say that you snuck out at night and jumped off a bridge.

The real person on the other end of the conversation gasped. His life might have been pretty shitty, but he'd never remotely considered killing himself. Even if Mr. Lewis had clarified that the younger man's death would be fake, that didn't make Danny feel much better. It would take some work for the Institute's staff to convince that Danny had actually jumped off a bridge. Perhaps more importantly…

It'd be hard for my friends to stomach. They say suicide is one of the most painful things for a loved one to go through. That just feels wrong, and isn't faking your own death illegal anyway?

Another long typing interlude. Then…

I'm looking at your IP address; it's been logged in our system. Your computer is located somewhere in Orange County, Vermont, correct?

There was only so much that lying could accomplish here, so instead Danny decided honesty was the best policy. Yes. It's insane that you can see that, though!

Welcome to the Internet, buddy. And no, faking your death is not technically illegal in Vermont.

But why does it have to be a fake suicide? I don't know if I can put Barrett through that!

Danny realized then that he'd slipped up. He was now at the mercy of the Jeanies, depending on what they decided to tell. Hell, they could probably figure out from Barrett's name that they were at the Sacred Heart Institute. It might not take much research, depending on how much social media presence Barrett's parents had. Anyway, Mr. Lewis' next message was the following:

Who's Barrett?

My friend. He's my best friend here.

And your name is…?

Danny understood that he'd passed the point of no return by now. To use a gambling analogy, he had no choice but to let the chips fall where they may, because he'd already bet his life savings on the spin of a roulette wheel.

Daniel Sham. Though I go by Danny.

Danny was then asked a series of questions, such as his height, weight, past illnesses and/or hospitalizations, and general appearance. The reader likely does not care about any of those statistics, so they have been omitted from this story.

So what is your chief interest? As in, what do you do for work?

Danny considered his response carefully, though perhaps not as carefully as he could have. But oh well - he'd just given away most of the information on his MyChart profile, so how much risk was he really taking at this point?

I've always dreamed of being a train conductor. But I'm at boarding school right now.

Well, there's only so many boarding schools in rural Vermont. And "urban Vermont" hardly exists at all.

I'm afraid you'll have to abandon those dreams, Danny. If your peers know you as the boy who always wanted to be a conductor, and is now studying for that occupation, someone might put two and two together.

Danny tried not to let his heart sink too deeply as he processed this news. There were other jobs in transportation, of course, though Danny didn't message Mr. Lewis with that information just in case he had more bad news.

Anyway…here are your medical records. Can you confirm that this is your medical history?

Everything seemed to be correct, so Danny messaged back in the affirmative.

They'll be sent to your new primary care physician. Your date of birth remains the same, and you'll be given the ID of a recently deceased young man. He died in a car accident, but his organs live on in people who needed them. And his name, too, will be transplanted into you.

That's…wholesome, I guess?

Correct. That's why I encourage everyone to sign up to be an organ donor. Should the worst happen, it could save someone else's life. In any case, I'll send over your fake ID, which can be downloaded and printed out at any time.

Mr. Lewis then sent Danny an image that would become his new health insurance card. Then, he continued typing.

You're being moved to Dorchester. That's a neighborhood of Boston, Massachusetts. This insurance card is for your primary care physician to sign off on. You might decide to take driving lessons, or you might not; I'd imagine you never got to drive where you are currently.

Right.

Now, about your new name: Memorize it like your life depends on it.

Right.

Because it very well might! There's a reason that we tend to give people names containing the same initials they had in their previous lives. They're easier to remember, and it's a dead giveaway that you've got something to hide if you can't even remember your own name.

Right. Danny couldn't think of anything else to say, really.

As soon as you can sneak out of the Institute, you just need to call the phone number 1-800-266-9290. Then we'll bring you to your new apartment and provide you with a stipend that you can live on.

That sounds like a pretty sweet deal, actually. With the housing market the way it is, I'm sure a safety net is going to be very helpful in getting me on my feet.

Remember, the stipend is a safety net, not a hammock. You'll still need to be careful with money.

I'm still going to accept your offer. Fake ID first, consequences later.

Mr. Lewis typed for a while after that, but when he came back, his response wasn't terribly long. It was, however, somewhat profound.

Danny Sham, resident at the Sacred Heart Institute in Tullamarine. That's who you were before. Who are you now?

Danny scanned his fake ID again, realizing just how much he looked like the dead man. Somehow they even had the same dates of birth, almost as though they were twins from different parents. In another life, perhaps they would have gotten along very well as friends, or maybe they would have bickered endlessly over every little thing. But such philosophizing would do no one any good.

I'm Dennis Summers, apparently.

----------------------------------------

The sound of his phone ringing woke Danny from a shallow slumber.

At first, upon opening his eyes, the young man wondered where, precisely, he'd ended up. But then he recalled that he'd been talking on the phone with Clint Cargile just a few hours before falling asleep, and that he was still in his apartment. Somehow, even after the Crawdaunt battle had kicked up so much dust, Danny had managed to sleep without even trying.

I just dreamed…about my past, didn't I?

He recalled what Clint had told him over the phone some hours prior. If you dwell on the way things used to be, your life will be a living hell.

Indeed, Danny could not mourn the past too much. There was no reason to romanticize life at the Sacred Heart Institute, Tullamarine, for it had been, well, shit. But something else grabbed him by the shoulders and refused to let go.

Clint knew his secret. He had to know that Danny wasn't who he said he was, because the man's word choice had just been too perfect. Sham was only one letter off from scam, after all; that had to be an intentional decision.

Do the Lobster Mobsters know me as Danny, or Dennis?

That question appeared in his mind as though Arceus, God, or whatever you believed in had just opened his skull and put it there. Danny didn't know the answer, nor did he have any idea how to look for one without throwing up all sorts of red flags. After all, the only person who might have information was Clint, and…

Danny's heart stopped as the phone rang again. The ringtone was, after all, what had raised him from his slumber, and it felt louder than a siren or bell.

According to the digital clock above the oven, it was almost midnight. When this saga surrounding the Lobster Mobsters finally ended (and he wanted to have faith that this end would come soon), Danny's sleep schedule would need a major readjustment. Like, what was wrong with him?

Anyway, Danny saw that the caller was Clint Cargile, the man with whom he'd become so thoroughly acquainted over the last three days.

"Clint, it's almost midnight," Danny muttered. "This had better be imperative. And by imperative, I mean really friggin' important."

"That sort of language is impolite, Dennis," Clint snapped, and that's when Danny fully understood why the CIA agent emphasized his supposed name.

That's also when Danny began to believe, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Clint knew. He knew his client already bore a fake ID, which was why Danny was so reluctant to change his name again to enter witness protection.

He'd effectively already done so.

"What's wrong, Dennis?" Clint barked. "You haven't responded in like thirty seconds."

"Sorry, Clint. Actually, I'm not sorry, because I'll admit it to you: My name isn't Dennis Summers."

The humorless chuckle that came out of the phone further confirmed Danny's belief. And then Clint flat-out stated: "Yes. I am aware of that. I've always been aware of that."

"Then why did you go through this charade?" Danny asked him. "Why would you treat me like an idiot if you want me to trust you?"

Clint sighed. "Some things just don't make sense. Or rather, that's for me to know and you to find out."

"I hate when adults say that," Danny muttered.

"You do realize that you're twenty-one now, right?" Clint replied. "You're an adult, whether you like it or not. Maybe at the place you grew up, you didn't have to act like one, but you've got to live in the real world now."

Danny saw red as he snarled into the phone.

"Look, Clint, just get to the point! It's almost midnight, for crying out loud, so there must be a reason you're calling me at such an hour!"

No response was forthcoming for a few seconds. Then, Clint responded in a tone suggesting satisfaction. (If Danny asked why Clint sounded so happy, the CIA agent would probably say again that this information was for Clint to know and Danny to find out. Arceus, he hated that phrase!)

"I'm aware of the Crawdaunt attack at your apartment today. Indeed, it's been a chaotic day for you. It's been a chaotic day for me, too. Which is why I would like to meet up again tomorrow and touch base."

I'm not sure I would like that, but if you say so.

Trying to humor Clint, Danny responded thusly: "I'll stay in my apartment all day tomorrow like a good boy. Maybe I'll bake some cookies to welcome you."

"That will not be necessary," Clint replied sternly, "because we won't be meeting at your apartment. I've got a different venue in mind. Have you ever heard of Castle Island?"

Danny had indeed heard of Castle Island. It wasn't terribly far from Dorchester; indeed, to those with long legs, it might as well have been within walking distance. He could get there easily on relatively short notice.

"Yes," Danny said.

"Let's meet there tomorrow at noon. I recommend you don't bring your phone."

"Why is that?"

"You don't want to be tracked. Ideally, when you got your fake identity, you would have gotten a new phone, but you didn't. And that's a big security hole."

I can't trust the police. But I can trust a CIA agent from Tennessee. In the future, I'll probably look back on this conversation and think "what the hell was wrong with me?"

"So Danny," Clint continued. "I've proposed a time and place to meet. There, we'll discuss next steps. Do you accept my invitation?"

Danny felt as though he were on the edge of a high diving board, knowing that if he hesitated just a few seconds, he would chicken out entirely. Before he could talk himself out of accepting the offer, he nodded.

"I'll be there."