The way I wake up can only be described as unpleasant. There’s nothing pleasant about being shouted at by three uniformed police officers who are pointing firearms at you.

At their command, I show them my hands slowly. I get out of the king-sized bed (when did I get a king-sized bed) when they tell me to. It all goes to shit when they ask me why I’m wearing Jordyn Bradford’s nightgown. Fuck me, that’s two good questions, officer. Who is Jordyn Bradford, and why am I wearing a nightgown at all?

“I… don’t know?”

“Get down on the ground, perv!”

I have no interest in having holes put in me today, so I don’t argue and get on the ground. They handcuff me. I look at the officers and see two teenagers behind them. One is an attractive young woman who looks vaguely familiar, the other looks like he could be my younger brother, if I had a younger brother.

The officers drag me to my feet, disturbing the rug under the bed. They start to lead me to the car, and I wince as something pierces my bare foot. I ask if I can borrow some pants from someone. The officers seem disinclined to, but the young woman stops them. She digs into a dresser in the bedroom, pulls out a pair of jogging pants, and hands them to me. She says, cautiously, “They’re my dad’s, but he’s dead, so he’s not going to miss them. Are you sure you don’t know where our mom is?”

The officers put the pants on me. I start to tell her that I’ve never heard of her mom, but the officers usher me out of the room, and my reply – and my condolences – remain unsaid.

The officers ask me more questions as they drive me to the station, but shock has worn off and I recall my weed dealer’s advice when dealing with the police. “Not until I talk to an attorney.” They try to convince me I can talk to them and trust them, but Terry was firm that when cops say that, they’re lying, and he’s pre-law and knows more about this shit than I do.

After a few more questions, the police get the message and stop asking questions, which gives me time to think of my own. Jordyn Bradford? That wasn’t the name of Josh’s mom, was it? Did he have twin siblings? None of this makes sense, especially with the boy looking so much like me. Did my dad have an affair with Josh’s mom? Wouldn’t they have recognized each other when they met last summer? Were they that good at acting?

At the station, the police make me exchange the nightgown for a shirt (no objections), fingerprint me and inform me that I’m under arrest for home invasion and they’re going to book me for kidnapping if I don’t come clean. I have nothing to come clean about, and reiterate my demand for a lawyer. They ask my name, and I tell them. One of the younger officers writes it down, but the oldest officer – a guy who looks like he’d retire tomorrow if he could – turns and stares at me. He walks, quickly, out of the room, and returns with a file. He pulls a picture out of the file, looks at it, and looks at me.

“You’re Jordan Jameson?” I nod, carefully. The officer turns pale. “Holy shit, you are… Jordan, where the fuck have you been for the last twenty years?”

I know I shouldn’t answer, but the officer’s question has me a bit stunned. “Um… I was being born? Then I was being a kid and went to college? I’m only nineteen, sir.” I try to be respectful in the face of his ridiculous question.

The officer tells me to turn my chair around and look in the one-way mirror. Holy fuck. Where is the rest of my hair? When did what was left get so long? Why do I look so old? I’m suddenly like forty!

The younger officer breaks the stunning spell the older officer and I are both under. “You asked for a lawyer, do you have one in mind?”

I say the only name I can think of. “Terry Gillespie.”

The officers look at each other, confused. “Are you sure?” I nod. They tell me they’ll call him and put me in a holding cell. They serve lunch, which is some kind of overcooked burger. It sucks.

In a couple hours, Officer Retiree comes to my cell. “We checked your fingerprints, and you are who you say you are. You’re sure you don’t want to tell us where you’ve been?”

I shrug. “Lawyer first.”

“Suit yourself. Get comfortable – he’s stuck in court today and says he won’t be able to come until tomorrow. You’re lucky you’re getting an estate attorney to consult on a criminal case at all.”

I nearly choke. Terry became an estate lawyer? He hated those guys last I talked to him. Something about doing work for money instead of for good. I hope at least some of the same guy I remember knowing is in there.

Dinner comes and dinner goes. I ask for a book or something, but they aren’t willing to give me anything to look at, not even a newspaper. I pass the time by pacing in the cell. My foot still hurts from whatever I stepped on in that bedroom, but it’s not bleeding, I can’t find any splinter, and the officers tell me I’m not allowed tweezers.

Eventually, I lay down and close my eyes. If I can’t do anything else, I can catch some sleep.

I dream about Josh. I’m following him up the stairs to our apartment. He’s wearing my favorite suit of his, the one that frames his shoulders perfectly. He unlocks the door, and holds it open for me as I walk inside. I tell him that I had a wonderful time, and that we need to go back to that restaurant sometime. He puts his arms around my waist, I put mine around his neck. He goes in for an ass grab, but I don’t mind – I pull his head down to my level for a passionate kiss.

We’ve kissed before, but this kiss puts the rest of our night on a new path. I pull away from him, grab his tie, and drag him into my bedroom. We dodge the flotsam of discarded clothes on my floor, and then add another to it as he begins the process of undressing me. I remove his tie, jacket, and shirt, and begin kissing his bare chest. He reaches behind me, unclasps my bra, and gently pushes me down onto the bed. His touch on my nipples is beyond any delight I’ve ever felt – until later that night. After we’ve finished making a mess of expensive clothes and have started making a mess of each other, he reaches for a condom and glances at me, asking for permission. I open the wrapper myself, and begin guiding him into me-

The feeling of dampness on my pants wakes me up. At first, I think I’ve had a wet dream – it certainly was building that way – but then I realize that the ceiling above the holding cell bed is leaking. I head to the bathroom and relieve myself, then splash some water on my face. That was a weird dream. I’m sure I’m not the first guy to dream of having sex with his roommate, but I’m not sure that having said dream as someone else is a thing. Then again, I apparently aged twenty years overnight, and people expect me to be that age, so maybe my sense of what is and isn’t a thing isn’t fully developed.

I check the time. It’s the middle of the night. I should get more rest while I can.

I dream again of Josh and of being a woman. She is – I am – arguing with him about a piece of jewelry. I recognize it as the same piece I was going to give Amanda for her birthday, but it has a red stone instead of a clear one. He wants me to break it, but I won’t. It’s a gift he gave me, why would I destroy it? I love it as much as I love him. He seems bothered by my profession of affection, but I don’t know why. We’ve been dating for a few months now, and just moved in together. Why is he suddenly getting cold feet? He keeps telling me that it’s not right, that none of this is right, but I don’t understand. I know that if he just hears me out, we can make this work. I want to make this work. I need to make this work more than anything. There’s nothing in the world I’d rather be than Mrs…

“Jordyn Bradford”.

I wake up hearing the same name I was thinking in my dream. That was weird as fuck. Why would I be dreaming of being the person whose house I’m accused of breaking into?

I look up from my bed to see who was speaking. It’s Young Officer, talking to a familiar-looking man in a very expensive suit. It sounds like he’s telling the man about my wonderful day yesterday. When he’s finished, the man walks up to my cell and talks to me.

“Jordan? I don’t know if you recognize me – it’s been a long time – but I’m Terry Gillespie. Can we talk?”