I understand it now.
The suspension. The not-quite-existing. The feeling of being caught between who you were and who you’re going to become.
Saul comes by on the third day.
“It’s done,” he says. “The paperwork’s finalized. You’re ready for processing.”
Processing. Such a clinical word for erasing everything you used to be.
“When?”
“Tomorrow.” He sets a folder on the table. “I pulled some strings. Called in some favors. The relocation is approved.”
“Colorado?”
“Colorado.” He smiles. “Small town. Mountain views. Bakery that needs a second pair of hands.”
My chest tightens. “And the cover story?”
“Husband. Like we discussed.” He opens the folder. Inside: documents, forms, a whole new identity waiting to be born. “You’ll need to choose a name.”
I look at the blank spaces on the forms. First name. Middle name. Last name already filled in.
Carter. Like her.
“I’ve been thinking about it,” I say slowly. “What to be called.”
“And?”
“Nathaniel.” The word feels strange in my mouth. New. “It means ‘gift of God.’”
Saul raises an eyebrow.
“I’m not religious,” I clarify. “But.” I try to find the words. “She’s the best thing that ever happened to me. A gift I didn’t earn and don’t deserve. And if I’m going to be someone new, I want the name to mean something.”
“Nathaniel Carter.” Saul says it slowly. Testing it. “Nate.”
“Nate.” I nod. “Yeah. Nate works.”
He writes it in the blank spaces.
And Enzo Mancini starts to disappear.
Processing is exactly as dehumanizing as Stevie described.
Photos. Fingerprints. Forms signed in triplicate. A bored government employee explaining the rules of my new life, reading from a script she’s memorized.
No contact with anyone from your previous life. No returning to locations associated with your previous identity.
I stop listening. I’ve already lost everyone from my previous life. Except the ones who matter.
Stevie, Dario, and Saul.
There’s nothing to go back to.
Only forward.
They give me new documents. Driver’s license, social security card, birth certificate. Nathaniel James Carter, born in Ohio, thirty-four years old, no criminal record.
