I was groggy, and more than a little high, at this point. I vaguely recall lifting the bird out to unwrap the foil and check its internal temperature. Glory be, The Roast was absolutely perfect; even fucked up, I had pulled off this coup. The browning was amazing, the smell, intoxicating. In my present state it was very hard to resist the temptation to pull off one of the massive drumsticks and start chewing it. Even though I would have burned myself and Calvin would have come home and murdered me.

I set about transferring the roast to the counter, decanting a portion of its juices, and packing it up. I didn’t kid myself that I was in any state to slice it up without his help. Unfortunately, for a bird this big, there was no shelf in the main refrigerator; I’d have to take it to the accessory fridge down in the garage as per usual.

You can imagine my confusion when I woke up another hour later in the living room. My phone had just pinged. It was my husband, texting me to let me know he’d be even later—bigwigs had Shanghaied him into some kind of dinner outing.

Boo-fuckedy-hoo, poor Calvin, tormented with expensive steaks and claps on the back.

Did I... did I finish the roast? Sure as shit I dared not mess that up, that would be another way to die in a justifiable homicide. I thought I had a vague recollection of an epic quest to the garage to refrigerate the beast... best to go make sure.

I passed the kitchen, where it definitely wasn’t, and wandered out to the garage. The bird’s place of honor was the bottom shelf, right above the crisper. It was empty still.“Ummm. Fuck.”

I’d been preparing myself for the possibility the turkey was either 1) getting burned in the oven or 2) chilling all happy in the garage fridge. Not for this. Where the hell could it be? I thought I remembered setting out from the kitchen, turning left... shit. I had the funniest feeling I knew where it was.

I rushed back to the hallway, and nonchalantly entered “2-8-4-5” on the keypad leading to Calvin’s room. No sooner had I swung open the door, than I knew something was very, very, wrong.

The room smelled delicious. It really shouldn’t have.

I disengaged the vacuum seal and flung open the door to the transmogrifier, knowing and dreading what I’d find. A fog of moisture spilled out, and I beheld the roast in its massive tupperware container, the lid smashed to pieces by the business end of a culture transfer syringe. A very stoned Sue had somehow come here instead of the garage, probably while the lab was sitting ajar, and managed to force her way into the incubator cabinet while still thinking it was the fridge.

I turned away, hissing with frustration and pondering my next move. Obviously the bird was ruined—it didn’t matter what sample had been in here previously, it was now a failed experiment and thus belonged in the biohazard bin. But just then, I heard the most terrifying thing. It was a faraway voice, moaning.

Calvin’s voice. Calvin, who was definitely still in Livermore. My mind reeled at the incongruity of the situation.

“C-Calvin?”

“Uunnnngh. Behind you.”

My muscles tensed and my hairs stood up. Run, idiot run! No. Do not run, this isn’t even real. Just... just say something, to keep yourself distracted from slipping into madness.

“Alright, I’m... I’m turning around.”

Sure enough, I wasn’t missing anything, this corner of the room was empty save for the machine, and the machine was empty save for the turkey roast.

“Sue, what’s happened to me?”

***

I awakened, blind and confused, to a gentle hum of biolab machinery.

Where was I? What day was it? Why did I feel all rubbery and bloated, and why couldn’t I move?

This would be a perfectly reasonable occasion to panic. The only explanations that presented themselves were bad ones—for instance, there was a decent chance I’d been abducted by agents of a foreign power who wanted to steal my research. Mine and Sue’s. But I did not panic. If anything, my mind was turning over too slowly, treating this whole thing way too casually.

Dammit, and less than a month before I was to give my big sales pitch to the brass about hiring my wife onto the team. Now that might never happen; they might find me dead, and Turkey Day would be ruined for Sue and the whole family.

Or hey, maybe I was wrong. Maybe this was just a bad trip. I did feel rather whacked out, neurochemically speaking.

I took slow, deliberate breaths and tried to clear my head. Okay, let’s take another stab at this. What can I deduce from my senses?

There was a hum of equipment. And warm, humid air. That was something...

I cleared my throat. “Hello? Hello?”

There was no response. But, I could tell from the harsh echo of my voice that I was imprisoned in a narrow chamber, probably hard plastic... the transmogrifier.

This left three possibilities. One, I had been detained right in my own office at Livermore. Two, I was in fact kidnapped, and the kidnappers had a rig of their own based on mine, where they’d left me tied up until they were ready to come back and kick the crap out of me. Yeesh. Or three, I was in the chamber of the machine at my own house. But that made even less sense than option one.

Unless.

Could I be the very first successful clone? Last thing I remember at the office was fighting tooth and nail against the brass’s demand to prematurely run a live sample. But then... What day was it? How to tell if I’m not myself? How do I use my limited facilities to test if this is not my body? What excuse for a body could I even give myself this early in development?

I tried to move my fingers. No good. My arms were there, but they felt all funny, and they seemed to be tied up.. Ditto my feet.

I could not blink my eyes. But I could move my neck slightly, and I could speak. I could not feel my tongue or my jaw, nor could I smell... but I could vaguely taste something salty and fatty. Some kind of nutrient broth.

I groaned in frustration.

“C-Calvin?” The voice was muffled, as though facing away, but I would have recognized it anywhere.

My heart raced. This made no fucking sense, that I’d be at home and my wife would be here. But it was leaps and bounds better than the alternatives.

“Behind you.”

“Alright, I’m turning around.”

For a moment, the drugged stupor seemed to lift. Yes. That had to be it. I was a clone experiment, performed in secret at the home lab where I could control things. The nutritive bath would be full of opiorphin, resulting in my sedation.

“Sue, what’s happened to me?”

Her voice rang out loud and clear this time: “Calvin... you’re in the turkey.”

“How the fuck am I in a turkey? This violates like five different international treaties and several laws of biology.”

And then the damnedest thing happened. Sue slapped me.

It didn’t hurt or anything. Actually it felt weirdly good—not in a masochistic way, in a bizarre, wires-crossed kind of way. Still, it shocked me that she would just hit me when I was trying to have a serious discussion.

“That’s exactly what I should be asking you, asshole,” she said. Her voice seethed with bitten-back anger. “You were in alpha testing to do cloning? Without me?”

“That’s just it, I wasn’t! The brass kept pressuring us to prematurely run some samples through the early stages of the process, but I refused. Sue, this is my home lab, isn’t it?”

“...Yeah.” She said it in that surly tone of voice, where I could just picture her standing with arms crossed.

“And what day is it?”

“It’s the night before Thanksgiving. You’re out somewhere at dinner with your bosses.”

“That means this map of my brain is a month old, Sue. I don’t know exactly where the other me is with his experiments, but clearly he’s been backed into a corner. Maybe this experiment was their price to expedite hiring you.”

“Aww, Calvin, I’m almost moved.”

“It doesn’t matter, I was never meant to be. You have to destroy me. What kind of existence can I... wait a minute.” I blinked. A hazy image of the incubation chamber and Sue appeared. “I can see! Holy shit!”

She leaned close. I could read the volatile combination of vengefulness and professional curiosity in her face. “Will you look at that. Pupils, emerging from the chemical mush that is your face. And they claimed only HaShem could design an eyeball.”

“Sue, you’ve gotta help me. I shouldn’t exist. And I have the strangest burning sensation in my ass… right where I stuffed myself full of garlic and ginger. Riiiight.”

“Maybe I can help with that, turkeyhusband. But first I’m moving you to my study. Where you will talk. At length, and in excruciating detail.”