The call came during supper from a number almost identical to her own. The man said he was calling about an account she had never opened. When she told him so, he agreed pleasantly and explained that the account consisted of unattended personal material: a Tuesday from nineteen years ago, a yellow kitchen, an unfinished sentence to her father.
She knew scams relied on fragments gathered from public records and old messages. He agreed again and asked her to verify one detail. What color was the car her father drove home that evening? She answered before caution caught up, and a small portion of the memory vanished. She retained the fact of the kitchen but lost the wallpaper.
The calls continued. A childhood dog. The smell of her primary school. A scar acquired on holiday. Each verification sharpened his knowledge and blurred hers. Soon he could describe birthdays she remembered only as photographs. He knew which jokes made her laugh before she did. When she challenged him, he explained that identity verification worked best when conducted gradually because people became distressed if too much was transferred at once.
Transferred.
That word changed everything.
She stopped answering.
The calls continued anyway. Voicemails appeared containing memories she had never spoken aloud. Friends began referring to conversations she could not remember having. Her employer congratulated her on a presentation she had not delivered. Someone using her name was moving through her life with increasing competence.
She called the number back.
A woman answered.
Her own voice greeted her with affectionate irritation and asked why she kept interfering with the migration.
The scam had never been about money. The caller collected enough authenticated detail to build a version of a person that reality would accept as genuine. Once the copy accumulated sufficient continuity, the original became the discrepancy.
She checked her driver’s license.
The photograph was hers, but the birth date was wrong.
Her phone unlocked for someone else’s face.
Then came one final message from the account department thanking her for her cooperation. The migration was complete, it said, and any remaining memories in her possession should be considered unauthorized duplicates.
By morning, nobody recognized her.
The yellow kitchen remained perfectly clear.
She could no longer remember whose childhood had happened there.
©2013 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys
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