What if in six years, two years after you’ve graduated college, you’re finally figuring things out. You’ve got a steady job and it looks like you’re heading in the right direction. You’re in a relationship, nothing really serious yet, but you know from your past experiences that this one’s different and you think it’s going to last. Of course there are some rough times, like your brother’s gambling problem and the broken windshield of your 2016 Toyota Forester, but it’s easier to deal with things than it was in college. You’ve learned how to deal with things. One day you stop by a café before work (it’s 2:34 pm, you’re going in late because your boss had a dentist appointment and let everyone take the morning off), you step up to the counter, about to ask for a coconut chai latte with almond milk (you’re trying to be vegan after you watched a documentary on mass-production dairy farms; it’s been two weeks and already your motivation is slipping, you know you’ll probably be drinking real milk again by Friday, but maybe you’ll stick with the not eating meat thing at least, I don’t know), when you open your mouth, your breath catches and you can’t move your lips. Your tongue tightens up and though you can move your mouth if you concentrate, the words come out all garbled. You’re more embarrassed than worried, so you close your gaping mouth and decide to just point to the drink on the menu, but your arm jerks as you raise it, and you topple the tip jar to the floor. You look around at the faces around you- a mixture of concern and impatience peppered through the crowd. Your cheeks redden as you quickly walk out the door. For the rest of the day you’re fine. No repeats of what happened, and you’re feeling very confused, you don’t tell your boyfriend, because you’d rather pretend that it never happened. Over the next couple days, incidents like the one in the coffee shop happen. Seven times to be exact. You fall over in the shower, you spill the entire jug of milk over the counter while preparing a bowl of cereal, etc. Most horrifying, while making out with your boyfriend you bite his tongue. Hard. As he holds a bloody tissue to his mouth, you explain what’s been going on, your words garbling at times. He tells you he’s really worried. He’s worried that something is wrong with your brain. He wonders if it could be a stroke. That’s ridiculous, you think. You’re 26, no one gets a stroke at your age. But you’re scared. You know something is wrong, so you agree to see the doctor tomorrow. He offers to come with you, but you know it’s hard for him to get time off work, so you tell him it’s fine, and you’ll text him as soon as you’re done. The next day you show up, nervous. You could hardly sleep last night, you got up jittery, and you were too mentally preoccupied to do your hair or focus on getting dressed. No matter, the doctor has you strip down anyway. You tell him you’re pretty sure it’s your brain, but he says sometimes the body has clues as to what’s going on. He does a full check up, asks you some questions, and when your words become difficult to understand, he orders a CT scan. You’re scared, lying still in the cold machine, that you could be walking out of the hospital with an expiration date. After twenty long minutes, you go back in the little office, and the doctor fixes you with a sober, pitying look. He tells you that this isn’t easy for him, and he’s sorry, but you are actually just a cybernetic suit being controlled by an 84 year-old Asian man living inside you. You have been your entire life. The doctor puts his hand on your cold, metal shoulder, as the 84 year-old Asian man presses buttons to make you weep.