I barely slept the whole night, tossing and turning as horrible dreams revolved in my head. They all featured the surgery in some form, whether it was just our plane crashing on the way to the island, or me waking up without a face at all. My throat was dry when I awoke, but it took a few seconds of deep breathing before I summoned up the will to stand. I was exhausted, mentally and physically. And I was scared out of my mind.

Chelsea apparently didn't have the same problem. She snored all night. Though I was glad that she was apparently free from the torment that plagued my sleep, it was lonely. When I woke in the morning and turned to see her serene, sleeping face, I felt lonelier than ever. It was like looking at myself, at everything I'd be giving up, in just a few short hours. Tomorrow, when I looked in the mirror, all I'd see would be bandages. And after that? Who knew.

“Chels,” I said gently. “You've got to get up. We have to meet Joel soon.”

She stirred, taking in a deep breath as her eyes flickered open. “Is it time already?”

I nodded sadly.

“Damn. I was having a really nice dream.”

My eyebrows rose in surprise. “Were you?”

“Yeah.” She nodded, righting herself in bed. “We were at home, hanging out with Mom and Dad, sitting around the fire pit in their backyard. They were singing to us, but I don't remember the words. I just remember looking at you and smiling.”

The dream felt so familiar, it could have been a memory. It tugged at my heart, and I wondered if maybe I'd gotten the easy dreams. At least mine were just horrible, and waking up was a blessing. I couldn't imagine waking up and realizing I'd dreamt of something that might never happen again.

“Come on,” I said, swallowing back tears. “Let's get down to the dock.” Though Joel and I were friends, at least on some level, I still didn't want to leave him waiting.

We called a cab outside the hotel, since I figured neither of us would be in any state to drive later. Chelsea held my hand while we waited. Neither of us cared if it looked weird, nor had we ever.

Even though we weren't always the most touchy-feely of siblings, there was an unwritten rule between us that if one of us was feeling sad or scared, the other would always let her hold hands with her. It was something we hadn't done in years, something I'd nearly forgotten about. Even now, as the smoke began to curl up from the fire I'd set to my old life, the gesture warmed my heart. We would get through this, and we would be stronger for it.

The cab ride to the dock was quiet and uneventful. I kept hoping that some divine message from the heavens would stop us in our tracks, and that we'd end up not going through with this kooky plan after all, but we arrived without incident.

Joel was waiting in the same spot he had been last time, but I almost didn't recognize him. He was somber today, devoid of the smile that I'd become so fond of. The serious expression didn't suit him.

“Hello ladies, I'm afraid it's the plane again today. I was running a little late this morning. You'll have to take turns.” Joel looked a little worse for wear, and I wondered if he'd had a bad sleep too. Not that he had anything to be worried about.

“I would never turn down a ride in a seaplane,” Chelsea said, trying to stir some enthusiasm.

An unexpected idea hit me, and suddenly Joel having brought the plane was the best-case scenario.

“You two go ahead,” I said, pushing Chelsea toward the handsome doctor. “I just have a little errand to run.”

I ignored the looks of surprise from both of them, not wanting to answer any questions about the nature of this errand.

“Sure,” said Chelsea, looking uncertainly between Joel and me.

“Don't worry, Miss Chelsea,” Joel said, walking forward and gently gripping her elbow. “We won't get started without her. You're safe until then.”

Chelsea laughed nervously. Joel knew just how flat the joke had fallen, but it was too late now. He began leading her down the dock while I turned back to the road to hail another taxi. I only had half an hour or so before Joel returned, and I would need every minute of it.

A cab pulled up and I slid inside, giving directions to the warehouse the film crew had been using as a makeshift studio during our residency on the island. The driver pulled from the curb without a word, and I craned my neck to watch as Joel's plane sputtered to life on the water. The car turned before I could see anything else.

My errand was simple, really. I just wanted one last picture of myself—as me. Sure, I had tons of photos of my face lying around, but I wanted one from today. That way, I could capture everything exactly as it was before the surgery, and I would always have the picture to look back on. Even though it would probably hurt too much to look at it, at first.

Hey, maybe I'd love my new face. Maybe it wouldn't bother me at all that I'd spent the last twenty-odd years looking one way, if I came out looking even better.

Nope. Even as I thought that, it didn't feel right. Because—even if I came out looking like some A-list actress—I would always know that my features had come from the edge of a surgeon’s knife, and not the combination of my parents' DNA.

But was that worth worrying about now, when it was practically done? Nope. I pushed the thought to the back of my mind and continued thinking about the picture I was going to take. There was lots of equipment at the studio, which was why I was headed there. I wanted a good shot, not some fuzzy, crappy one from my phone camera. There probably wouldn't be anybody around the studio today, either, so I could be in and out in a flash. I just hoped that the crew hadn't already packed the equipment away, since everyone was heading home soon.

The cab pulled up in front of the warehouse. I handed the driver a fistful of cash and got out, half-jogging toward the front entrance.

“Excuse me!” a male voice called from behind me.

I turned, wondering if I hadn't paid the cab driver enough, but the car had already pulled away. The man trying to get my attention was wearing a dark suit and sunglasses, so I guessed he was probably someone from the set, wanting to see ID.

“Hi, can I help you?” I asked. “I'm in a bit of a rush.”

The man strode toward me, and my muscles twitched in anticipation of running. Something didn't feel right about this.

“Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask that you come with me.” The man stopped a few feet in front of me, rooted around in his jacket pocket, and then flashed a badge. An FBI badge. “My name is Agent Greaves. We have some questions for you.”

I took a step back, and the man followed. I had a feeling he was being polite because he didn't want to cause a scene, even though it didn't appear that there was anybody else around.

“I don't know why you'd want to talk to me,” I said, feigning ignorance. “I'm just the assistant set designer. Is the production company in trouble or something?”

My heart pounded like a war drum and nausea roiled in my belly. This was it. It was all over. Somebody had realized the money was missing, and now they were coming for Chelsea. And me.

“Ma'am, please don't make this difficult.” The man had a thick southern drawl, the kind that left no room for argument.

“How do I even know you're actually with the FBI?” I asked. “I'm not going anywhere with you.”

“They all say that.”

I jumped, startled at the sudden materialization of a woman behind me. She was dressed in the same dark uniform suit as her colleague, and her hair pulled back into a tightly knotted bun. Her sunglasses were almost identical to those of her colleague.

“I’m Agent Henderson. Chelsea Redfield, if you don't agree to come with us willingly, I'm afraid you're not going to like what comes next,” the woman said.

“You're mistaken.” I shook my head. “I'm not Chelsea Redfield.”

“Doesn't matter.” Henderson frowned. “You're coming with us.”

“No!” I shouted, trying to sidestep them. Henderson put her arm on my shoulder. “I'm not Chelsea, and I'm not coming with you!”

I was panicking now. I pictured my sister, probably sitting in Joel's office, waiting for him to come back from his trip to pick me up. If I could just slip away from the agents long enough to get back to the dock, everything would be fine. Chelsea and I would get our new faces, and then we could quietly escape the country, just as planned.

Unfortunately, my new friends were a lot more motivated than I had anticipated. As soon as I tried to pull my shoulder out of Henderson's grip, she performed some sort of maneuver that had my arm twisted painfully behind my back in the blink of an eye.

“They never go easily,” she muttered.

Greaves chuckled. “Ain't that why you love the job?”

The partners seemed impervious to my pleas as they dragged me over to the black SUV parked on the side of the road. They cuffed me and ushered me into the back seat, and I screamed at them the whole time.

I was a goner. I'd never be heard from again. All because I got sentimental and just had to have a photo of myself before the surgery. Why couldn't I have just left it? I could be with Joel right now, flying over the scenic landscape of the Bahamas and daydreaming about a new life. Instead, I was in the back of an unmarked car with the FBI, heading God-knows-where.

“Where are you taking me?” I asked, kicking the back of Henderson's seat.

She turned and glowered at me. “Relax, Chelsea. We're just going to the police station.” She turned back, and both of them ignored the rest of the questions I asked.

Finally, resigned, I slumped back into the seat. The metal of the handcuffs dug painfully into my wrists, but I barely felt it. My thoughts were consumed by thoughts of my new future. I was going to spend the rest of my life in a jail cell, all because I looked too much like my goddamn sister.

Henderson and Greaves pulled into a small parking lot once we were back in town. The police station here was always quiet, so the arrival of two federal agents and a cuffed woman caused quite the stir with the officers inside. They all rubbernecked as we walked past.

Henderson's hand gripped my shoulder a little too tightly. I hoped there would be somebody else for me to talk to at the precinct. If nothing else, one of these cops would help me, right?

Greaves opened the door to a small, dingy interrogation room and gestured for me to take one of the chairs at the small table.

“Are you going to un-cuff me?” I asked.

Henderson looked like the thought hadn't even occurred to her until then. She reluctantly undid my handcuffs and slipped them back into her pocket, giving me a smile as she patted them through the fabric, as if to let me know they could go back on at any time.

Then, with no other choice, I began to talk to the FBI agents, hoping to explain myself and get out of this mess.