That Juliana Blumenthal expunged all signs of her ex, no snapshots, trophies, diplomas, or mementos of him anywhere on the premises, seems perfectly natural, as natural as her decking the halls with images of his replica—i.e. of Sam—recorded by Dad O’Rourke on his roundtrip to the loo, during which he skips nothing, documents every scrap that he clandestinely reassembles into a montage, downloads, and sends, meeting the pictorial precondition of his client in report number seven...

            ... examining its transmission, Nana Wolffmüller gapes and shudders, mistaking what she beholds for a portrait of him, Stuyvesant Fink in the flesh (to the extent that pixels can render it), neglecting the underscored caption:

            ... who is under surveillance as he circles a pink Mercedes (click) as he peers in through its windows (click) as he inspects the plush interior (click) as he lifts his head above the convertible top and glances around self-consciously (click) as he reassures himself despite an inkling he is being watched (click) as he resumes an avid inventory of the vehicle’s dashboard, carpet, and bucket seats (click) as he once again cranes his neck in search of a spy espying him spying (click)...

            ... Sam’s every action photographed from afar through a telegraphic lens, from a higher vantage point, with a Super Cyclops Digital that tracks his every move, zooms in on his face and surveys its scruffy boyishness, attractive in a way his Tweedledom replica no longer is, to Joanna, aiming her camera at an anxious Tweedledee, uncannily alike in all save infidelity, Sam a rogue, for sure, an unforgivable opportunist, but not a good-for-nothing cheat, not a deserter, not a breaker of solemn promises as is...

            ... Rockefeller, purporting to be infatuated with an empty, witless carapace, hollowed out on purpose to sustain some soulless state abnormally alluring in spite of or because of abject helplessness, humanity called into question by chronic deprivation, isolation, insulation from the world at large, nothing known beyond the lab and its pitiless proprietor who, by his clone, has been replaced...

            ... him by whom her hoses, tubes and cables are gingerly disengaged, life-supports interrupted as he lifts Yvette from her techno-levitation and plants her bare feet squarely on the floor perchance she stands unaided, takes the necessary steps to an apparatus in a designated gym, an allocated space devoted to conditioning the subject’s trim physique, athletic proportions, and unequivocally stunning envelope of skin—succulent as an olive with a pink pimento centre...

            ... mirrored by its paradigm in her studio hard at work, if ill at ease, Nana disabused of her mistake yet sure the younger likeness epitomizes him whose character she is determined to represent in clay—apply and smooth—her fingers sculpting feverishly, guided by the composite, matching simulated features to those she makes concrete, aging in her mind's eye Stuy-Rem's offspring-sobriquet-clone by deepening grooves, accentuating crow’s-feet, inching back the hairline, then doubling each revision, Stuy-Rem-Left portrayed coequally with Stuy-Rem-Right ...

            ... aka Rockefeller-Twin, together in a single visiting-room chair—lawyer opposite, briefed by Dr. Grant, therefore solicitous and noticeably on edge—the patient struggling to affect an air of rational nonchalance while stifling desperation, fighting off the effects of a change in medication (administered intravenously to ensure it does its work), limb restraints discontinued, slurring slightly his plea for an expeditious hearing in hopes it will result in a court-ordered discharge.