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“Huh. And who is this ‘Clooney’?”

“Only one of the most famous actors in the world,” I said.

“Does it make you feel uncomfortable for me to have this appearance?”

“No, not uncomfortable. After all, he is hot. It’s just… a little unsettling.”

He nodded.

“I understand,” he said.

He looked away and then turned back to me.

My jaw dropped.

His face had changed, morphed into a man I’d never seen before. He was much older, with thinning hair.

But the smile was the same. Only now it looked strange and sinister.

Like a magic trick by a psychopath.

Suddenly, my sense of panic was rising in my chest again. I staggered into a trolley on wheels.

“Careful,” Not George Clooney said. “We wouldn’t want you to get damaged, would we?”

Damaged.

Not injured or hurt.

Damaged.

What did that even mean?

I surveyed my immediate surroundings. It was a small room, dark, and without windows. Cold and sterile. If this was a hospital, they must have shoved me in the basement.

With the metal tools on the tabletops, it looked more like a dungeon.

That’s when I noticed the pod bedside me.

Pod.

It sounded like a strange word—it was a strange word—but it described the object perfectly. It was an oblong box with a glowing white lid.

It was where I’d been sleeping before I woke up.

I felt sick.

My eyes went to the doorway and I moved for it.

Not George Clooney moved with me, waving his arms to either side to block me.

I squealed and backed away. I was dressed in a paper gown which hospital patients always wore. I suddenly felt very exposed.

“Take it easy now,” Not George Clooney said, reaching inside his pocket.

Whatever he was grasping, I was pretty sure I wanted to see it.

My hands darted to the trolley beside me, to a bunch of tools I had barely even noticed were there. My hands seized the first thing they came to.