Decades after a death which he can’t remember – or centuries after it, or millennia – Perry Doran wakes up to be worshiped; or shunned; or ignored; or celebrated; or tolerated. -excerpt- There was one more thing Perry remembered from his first life, which he did not tell the doctor: He remembered a woman moving into his apartment. He felt that she was, or became, his wife. The apartment was white, full of light.  He remembered the snap of a hem of a dress. A twist of hips, a turn of a body. A smile. He remembered warm skin; the curves of her collarbones.  And love. And touch. The love was almost a physical presence; it was heat, light.  He remembered feeling that his life had multiplied, somehow. Expanded. If now he had been asleep for two hundred years, locked in a shell floating in the ocean, the widened horizon he felt when it had cracked open and released him was still nothing like what he had felt long ago when that woman had moved in. He didn’t feel this was concrete enough to share with the doctor. And he also felt it would be a violation of something if he did.