When he tried to swipe his keycard at the lobby elevator that Tuesday evening, the reader blinked a spiteful, jagged red. He tried again. Red. He walked to the concierge desk, where a young man he didn’t recognize was monitoring the screens.

The guard sighed, the weary sound of someone dealing with a prankster. He tapped a few keys and turned the monitor around. There was the resident profile for 4B. The name was correct. The social security number, the emergency contact, the employer—all Elias’s. But the photo attached to the file was not Elias. It was a man with a broader jaw, thicker hair, and a smile that looked far more confident than Elias had ever managed to be.

A local news segment featured a "Human Interest" story about a generous donation made to the city library’s restoration fund. The donor was a "local philanthropist and rising star in the archival world." The screen showed the man from the lobby’s monitor. He was standing in Elias’s office, wearing Elias’s favorite tweed jacket, shaking hands with the Head Librarian.

Elias backed away. He reached into his pocket for his phone, but when he tried to unlock it with his thumbprint, the sensor vibrated in rejection. He tried his passcode. Incorrect.

Desperation drove him back to the library the next morning. He didn't go through the front. He used the delivery bay, slipping in behind a crate of periodicals. He knew the blind spots of the security cameras; he had mapped them out himself during a boring summer shift.

I’m sorry, sir, the young man said, not looking up from his tablet. Residents only. I live here, Elias said, his voice thin. 4B. Elias Thorne.