But the people: the people know me. They have met me before—or rather, they think they have. There’s a physical history here, too, which apparently belongs to someone, with books by the chair I woke up in, and very plain food, and music on a crank-handle turntable. So: was I here, in one of my scattered moments? I haven’t just swallowed someone, I don’t think, unless they were very small. Maybe, if they were barely alive at all—just going through the motions of thinking and feeling, putting on a good show. How close can a human get to empty automation?