The car parked itself and came to a full stop and I jumped out, eager to go inside of the house. The garage was immaculate. Shelves on the sides, fresh paint, all dark gray and black.

There was one more car there, a silver cover parked in it. The outlines of the vehicle looked familiar. It can’t be. I thought and lifted the edge of the cover, revealing the white paint I knew so well. I pulled and ripped the rest of the cover off. My Honda! This was the car I bought a few months after I’d started at The Lab. I paused, thinking, trying to remember. A flash, just a flash of a memory. I saw myself parking it on the hill on Forward avenue, opening the glove compartment, taking out the knife. The knife! The knife that belonged to my grandfather, to Rodion Likharev. Rodion is real. I am Rodion. The knife was proof of that.

Hands shaking, I opened the door of the Honda. I was real; I wasn’t Ryder.

I had a past, a connection, and this memory was what could save me. The knife. I needed the knife. I reached into the glove compartment, only to find it locked. I bellowed in frustration and stomped my foot. Why was nothing going my way?

I stepped back from the Honda when I noticed the key sitting right in the open, in the console. I stared at it in amazement.

Was it there a moment ago? I grabbed the key and unlocked the glove compartment. There was a pile of crumpled papers, a receipt from Jiffy Lube, the car manual in a black folder.

There was no knife. I reached all the way in and dug in the back of the glove compartment. Nothing. Fine then. There was no time to waste. I stuffed all the papers back, threw the manual on top and was about to close the glove compartment when something made me pause. The zipped manual folder felt unusually heavy. I unzipped it, and a tome of the Count of Monte Cristo fell out. I recognized it right away. It was the Russian edition, the one we’d brought from Moscow. The book Mama had read to me. Memories came flooding back, as I ran my finger over the spine. Mama reading the book, telling me the stories of justice and revenge. The Count. CM. Why is the book in the car? Hands shaking, I flipped open the book and saw that the middle part of it had been cut out to make a compartment.

Inside was my knife. Rodion Likharev. was carved on the handle.

My name. My grandfather’s name. Me. I was real.

I gripped the handle and ran my finger over the blade and remembered.

***

Mother’s day.

Sunday, May 10, 2009

This was the day it would happen. I would finish Phil off and finally avenge Mama’s death.

Since signing up for the gym with Ben’s help, I’d been going there in the mornings, working out for two hours every day. Now, five months later, I’d built up muscle mass. I felt good. Strong.

After work, I practiced with the knife in my living room. I’d decided it was the safest way to do it, so no one would see me. I’d sharpened the knife and was ready.

There was no way I could sleep the night before, not right when my life would change. I was about to fulfill my dream, to settle the score. Avenge Mama.

The evening prior, I’d planted myself in front of the console and gamed my heart out. There I was, on the streets of Chicago, stealing cars, ripping people out of their seats, shooting and running. I was invincible, clearing levels, setting records. I spent all night gaming and felt great. It had been a while since I’d done that, with all the testing at the Lab and Ryder. The digital double testing was going well, ever since the mishap there with oxygenation and my conversation with Dr. Matucci. I’d taken her words to heart.

I could not afford to lose the job at the Lab, could not become a liability, and now trained with the knife only on my time, no matter how tempting it was to listen to CM. The Count appeared regularly, telling me to go ahead, that no one would know. But I no longer trusted him. I could not risk passing out again, like last time. I had to be a model employee. I shook my head at my own stupidity at having taken a huge risk. I could have lost my job, and someone could have found out about my plan.

I’d set the alarm for seven in the morning, just in case, though I doubted I’d need it. And sure enough, when the sun came up at around six, I was wide awake. I put away the console and headed upstairs. I showered, got dressed in the outfit I’d planned for that day. It was my favorite jeans and a black hoodie, my old Nikes. I was ready to go.

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Too high on adrenaline, I couldn’t eat, so I left the house on an empty stomach and drove to Trader Joe’s, parking across the lot, so I could see the entrance. I’d planned this very moment ever since running into Phil there. He was a creature of habit, and I knew he would stop by the store to get the flowers first, then head over to his mother’s.

So I waited. A little before eight, a line of shoppers formed at the entrance. All there to buy bouquets for their mothers. Meanwhile, I was deprived of Mama. My mother was dead. Had been dead for ten years now, all because of Phil. The only bouquet I’d get would be to bring to Mama’s grave, if she had one. But she didn’t.

My brother and I couldn’t afford to buy a plot at the cemetery. We didn’t have the money to pay for a tombstone, and so Mama’s remains were in an urn. Phil hadn’t even helped us pay to bury her. Anger rose inside of me and I clenched my fists. Just a little more, and he would pay.

I calmed myself, but my heart was racing. I fidgeted in my seat. My hands suddenly felt freezing, and I rubbed them together. The May morning was colder than expected, and I shivered, pulling the hood over my head. I glanced at the line of shoppers and my heart leaped.

There he was! Phil! I recognized the familiar bald head, the paunch. He was dressed in khakis and a white sweater. My heart rate sped up, and I felt noxious with excitement. I closed my eyes for a moment, and the image of diving the knife into his throat came to me. The vision was about to come to life. I just had to be patient for another hour. Just sixty minutes before my dream finally came true.

The doors of Trader Joe’s opened, and the shoppers rushed in, pushing each other out of the way. I saw Phil maneuvering inside, elbowing someone. It was a few more minutes before he would emerge from the store with the bouquet and head to his mother’s. So predictable.

Little did he know, I would wait for him by her apartment building, and he would never make it. I drove off, gleeful my plan was working so well.

On Sunday morning, the streets were empty, and I made it to the hill on Forward avenue and parked the car around the corner in a shaded spot, just two blocks away from the construction site I’d picked for my plan after casing the area. My car was just like any other old Honda, completely inconspicuous, and was close enough for an easy escape. After cutting Phil’s throat, I would make it back to my Honda in less than two minutes and would be long gone before anyone would notice.

The construction site was boarded off, but there was a gap, and that’s where I would sneak in and hide behind a concrete block. It was perfect and offered a view of the street and the sidewalk. Phil always parked on the street from his mother’s apartment building and would be forced to walk right in front of the construction site. There, he’d be forced to cross the street, directed by the ‘sidewalk closed’ sign, and that’s where I’d get him.

Only fifteen minutes after leaving Trader Joe’s, I was in my spot. Everything was going according to plan. Feeling the knife in its sheath in my pocket, I couldn’t stop myself from smiling. I was about to fulfill my dream. My life was just about perfect. A great job at the Lab, a ton of money, and, once I avenged Mama’s death and settled the score, I could live freely. If only Mama could see me now. I thought, and at that very moment, saw the familiar silhouette turn the corner.

It was Phil, and the smug expression on his face made me want to punch him in the gut. For a moment, I reconsidered my plan, and the knife seemed almost too graceful, too elevated of an experience for a low-life like him. Phil was carrying a huge bouquet of pink lilies, and the plastic rustled in the wind. Not a cloud in the sky. The perfect day.

Phil was getting closer, and I crouched, getting ready to jump and strike. I’d focused my eyes on his throat, the loose skin hanging slightly over the sweater. I gripped the knife by the handle and looked down at it to get the sheath off. The blade was incredibly sharp and a ray of light reflected in it, blinding me for a second. Just one second was all it took.

I heard a screeching noise. Loud, the sound of tires, and then a dull thud and a blood-curdling scream. When I looked back up, Phil was on the ground, crushed, bloodied. Dead on the spot, hit by a truck that had appeared out of nowhere. It was a bright yellow truck with the huge red letters. Ryder. A Ryder truck had struck Phil. The very same truck I’d seen when I picked an American name for myself. A Truck-kun. Flashed through my mind. Phil will now be reincarnated as someone else, and I didn’t get to avenge Mama.

I was taking in the scene when the truck started moving. Wide-eyed, I stared at the driver. Behind the wheel was Ryder. There was no mistaking him for anyone else. I saw him every day at the Lab for hours, trained with him, tested his abilities. It was my digital double. He was wearing my clothes, the same black hoodie. I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came. Frozen in place, I watched as the truck started to pull away, leaving me next to Phil’s body.

“Stop!” I yelled after the truck and ran after it. But I was no match for a truck. It ran a red light and drove off, leaving me in the cloud of exhaust fumes. I didn’t notice the license plate number. I stopped and heard a siren. How would I explain what I was doing there? I had to disappear.

I ran. Clutching the knife, no longer caring whether I’d cut myself, I ran up the street, turned the corner and jumped into my Honda. My hands shaking, I revved the engine and felt a wave of sickness. I opened the door and vomited on the sidewalk.

I couldn’t go back home, couldn’t imagine being there, not after what I’ve seen. The image of Phil’s face, his body, the blood, the guts. I should have been happy. My enemy was dead. But I felt disgust and horror. It was nothing like I’d seen in games. Nothing at all. And it was nothing like seeing Mama when I found her . She looked asleep, peaceful, but Phil’s face had a tortured expression. Ugly. I wanted no part of it. I needed to disappear. To go to a place where I could be off the grid. I could think of only one place where I could lie low.

I drove off and turned to Beechwood boulevard, and, five minutes later, I was on 376 west, driving through the Squirrel Hill tunnel.