‘You don’t think of yourself as Matthew Rose Sorensen?’ ‘No,’ I said. ‘But you have his face,’ she said. ‘Yes.’ ‘And his hands.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And his feet and his body.’ ‘All that is true. But I haven’t got his mind and I haven’t got his memories. I don’t mean that he’s not here. He is here.’ I touched my breast. ‘But I think he’s asleep. He’s fine. You mustn’t worry about him.’
