I am an orphan.
My name is Erik Zonitson. My mother was Irish, my father Russian. They died in a carriage accident when I was twelve. My grandmother, who was my guardian, recently died also. I moved to London Mills, Illinois to look for a job. I now work as an apprentice to an accountant. I am twenty years old. I am reasonable, polite, and good-tempered, though slightly shy, and keep my opinions to myself. I almost never get angry. I read, any books I can find, whenever I have spare time. And I play a killer game of poker.
Today the newspapers declared that the president of the United States of America has been killed. They suspect a man named Michael O'Donan.
I, Erik Zonitson, think this is terrible, but stay quiet and show my boss the article.
I, Racetrack, remember this man from the newspaper a year and a half ago. I'd always thought they were making it up.
I, Anthony Higgins, have never heard of Michael O'Donan.
I, Michael O'Donan, know that it is time to disappear once again.
In the middle of the night, I tip the table on its side. I silently open a window, and scatter a pile of loose papers across the floor. Then I take a knife, make a few slashes in the couch where I sleep, and one in my wrist. The blood drips onto the floor, making a visible stain. Good. I slip out the door and close it behind me.
My boss will infer what happened.