Chapter 1: White Room

She woke on a couch in a room she did not recognize. The ceiling was high and white. The walls were white. The floor was polished concrete, cool beneath her bare feet when she swung her legs down and stood. Her name was Iris. That much she knew immediately. She was thirty-four. She lived in Portland. She worked as a forensic accountant. These facts presented themselves cleanly, without confusion, which made the gap in her memory more alarming. She could not remember how she had gotten here. The room was an apartment, open-plan and expensively furnished. A kitchen with marble countertops and stainless steel appliances occupied one wall. A dining table set for one stood near a window that stretched from floor to ceiling. The window looked out onto a cityscape she did not recognize, buildings of glass and steel under a sky that was uniformly gray, like a projection rather than weather. She tried the front door. It was locked, seamlessly integrated into the wall, with no visible handle or keyhole. The window was made of a material that looked like glass but felt like stone, unyielding when she struck it with her fist. There was a bathroom, a bedroom, and a closet filled with clothes in her size, all in neutral colors, all new. The refrigerator was stocked. The bookshelves held titles she recognized, authors she loved. Someone had curated this space specifically for her. A speaker mounted in the ceiling crackled to life. The voice was male, calm, and conversational, the kind of voice that belonged to someone accustomed to being listened to. It said good morning and used her full name. It told her she was safe and that everything would be explained in time. She asked where she was. The voice said that was the wrong question. The right question, it suggested, was why she was here. Iris sat down on the couch and realized her hands were shaking.