At the end of my hibernation, I’d wake up—I imagined—and see my past life as an inheritance. I’d need proof of the old identity to help me access my bank accounts, to go places. It wasn’t as if I’d wake up with a different face and body and name. I’d appear to be the old me. “But that’s cheating,” he said. “If you’re planning to walk out of here and go back to being the same person you are now, what’s the point?”
