I'm not sure why they're even doing this, why they need me, and others like me. I have my theories, based on the bits of information that I collected over the years. You can’t get far when asking them direct questions, but sometimes they get carried away when talking to you, and you find out a new bit of info before they catch themselves.

Apparently, they've existed long before humans. At first, the main use of their shape-shifting abilities was hunting—after all, the best way to get close to a gazelle is to look like another gazelle. Once it’s within your reach, you can turn into whatever you want, as long as it allows you to tear it into pieces. So, I guess they started like savages, similar to us, but their shifting nature gave them one heck of an advantage. Then, they continued to evolve along completely different routes, occasionally crossing ways with humans.

They don’t hunt us, at least not anymore. They just remove people and replace them with shifters who continue to live the person's life. I think people occasionally noticed something, because there’re folklore stories in different cultures about changelings, trolls and fairies snatching away human babies and replacing them with their own. Perhaps the difference was most notable in children, their mothers attuned to every small aspect of their child's behavior, able to notice even the slightest changes. When an adult is replaced, given that the shifter knows the person’s full background, it can go rather smoothly. This way, they can easily shape the direction in which our history goes, infiltrating our society at the highest levels.

The real question is why? What do they get out of it?

I wonder if, after they snatched me, they replaced me with one of their kind. Has my doppelganger left for college by now? Does he visit my parents on vacations and holidays? Perhaps there never was an Amber Alert for me. Maybe nobody even found out that I disappeared.

I hope he acts like a good son, at least. Because one of my pet theories is that they kind of feed on our misery. That would explain why history invariably steers towards wars and suffering. Maybe it's not that human nature is inheritably flawed. Maybe it's the shifters among us pushing us the wrong way, just to enjoy the resulting suffering.

“Submit your assignments by tomorrow,” I say, and the students get up. I don't look at them as they stuff their books into their bags and shuffle to the door. The ones who remain in character talk to each other and laugh, others walk in silence. With my peripheral vision, I watch them file out into the corridor. Then, the room is quiet, and the only presence is someone standing next to me.

I look up. Blue jeans, soft grey sweatshirt. He's hugging his backpack in front of him, an oddly defensive gesture. I'm not surprised that he's seeking me out again. I've noticed him try to catch my eye a few times during the class. A weird part of me kind of wanted him to approach me. I mean, he just looks so much like Barry.

“Sorry,” he says. “About yesterday.”

I raise my eyebrows, unsure what he means.

“I shouldn't have asked about your real name. It's none of my business.”

I shrug. “It's no big deal.”

“I just thought about it. Living here, you don't have much of your own, and so you try to keep what you have to yourself. Like, whatever you have in your mind, is yours alone, and so it makes sense that you’d be protective of that.”

“Well, that's... good analysis,” I say, still trying to figure out what he wants.

“You don't need to be afraid of me.”

“I'm not.” At this particular moment in time, it is true.

“Good.” A smile curves his lips. “In which case, can I take you out for coffee?”

“Out?” It comes out too sharp, and he shakes his head, losing the smile.

“No. Sorry. Not, like—outside. Just here, in the cafeteria.”

“Students don't ask their teachers out for coffee.”

“I know. I'm not asking you as a teacher. You're not really a teacher.”

“You're not really a student.”

“Doesn't mean that we can't drink coffee.” His smile makes a comeback, and something crazy inside of me is pushing me to smile back. I stop myself. There’s no way I'm buying into his act.

“Come on,” he prompts. “I'll get you French Vanilla. That's what you usually pick up in the coffee machine.”

“You've been watching me?”

He shrugs. “Yep.”

“Why?”

“I'm not sure,” he says, and that somehow rings like the truest thing he's said so far. “I just want to spend time with you.” He looks at me expectantly.

I sigh. This is weird, but my job here is to play along, and I have nothing against coffee.

“Fine,” I say. “Let's do it.”