Allow Me To Explain

I understand how you might read this and dismiss it as the ramblings of an insane man. I do understand. As a physician it is my job to examine the physical. If what I examine is free from disease or deformity, I must pronounce it fit, and any diagnosis to the contrary must be viewed with suspicion.

I examined more than two dozen people in Santa Mira, after receiving complaints from their relatives. Odd complaints, most of them centered on a belief that an impostor was now serving in place of their aunt, their uncle, their mother.

But upon examination, every one of the two dozen "impostors" proved to be quite real. Their hearts pumped blood. Their lungs drew air. Their only shared "illness" was a slight, almost lackluster look of puzzlement. But then again, these people had been accused by their loved ones of being counterfeit humans. I doubt I could maintain my equanimity if faced with such an absurd accusation.

So yes, I viewed the complainants with suspicion. Dan Kauffman, the only psychiatrist in town, said it was a strange neurosis, and though I am not extensively schooled in psychiatry, the diagnosis seemed plausible.

"It's mass hysteria, basically," Dan said. "One person becomes afraid and tells her best friend, who 'catches' the fear and falls ill from it. Santa Mira isn't a big town, Miles. I'm surprised you haven't seen more than two dozen cases."

But if this was mass hysteria, it was extremely short-lived. Within 72 hours, every one of the original "hysterics" had dramatically calmed. Every one of them. Each called my office and told Sally that everything was back to normal. Jimmy Grimaldi and his mother even made a point of coming in to show me that Jimmy's fit from the day before was ancient history.

But how? Why? Questions without answers. I had done nothing to "cure" Jimmy, whose screaming fit had not seemed an act. Yet Jimmy and his mother felt compelled to assure me in person. Did they want to lull me into complacency? If so, why?

And why were the complainants now wearing the same bland expression as the loved ones they so recently called fake? Why was the downtown diner now empty during the breakfast rush? Why was Santa Mira increasingly quiet, even during the height of the afternoon drive home? Why didn't I hear the din of car horns on the expressway, raised voices in the mall? Why was I greeted by more and more people with the same quiet -- disquieting -- tone in their voice?

At that point I mentally slapped myself, hard. Such talk should be exclusive to the paranoids of our world, a club that excludes me from its membership rolls, thank God. My life is firmly rooted in reality. There are no impostors, no replacement humans. Medicine has advanced remarkably in my 20 years of practice, but we are not to a point where humans can be replicated overnight. Even Kinko's can't do that.

I was left with facts in direct competition. Mankind and science cannot create bland clones, devoid of any sort of passion or extremes. Yet I see them on the streets of my town. More and more with every new morning.

And then Jack Belicec showed me the most impossible thing of all.