I feel a jolt and come to myself in a little box, my mouth sucking in air and my mind immediately running a list of what might have happened. Words. I know these words, somehow, even though my mind has never uttered any of them before. I know the definitions, I know the context, I know the grammar and syntax. These words dance in my head, in the darkness and silence of this box. Box. Noun. Typically rectangular rigid container with or without lid. An open container of a vehicle. Coffin. Am I in a coffin? I don't think this is a coffin. It's too rectangular and I'm not dead, nor am I laid out as if anyone thought I was dead. They are in a vertical position. But I don't remember anything about the past. I don't know if I will have a future. The box has a lid. I'm not sure how much time has passed, but I know this; I know there is light flooding this box. I see a face. A human face. Humanity. Noun. The state or quality of the human being. The state or quality of being generous or friendly towards people or animals. All humans. Why can't I remember if I'm part of this ''All Humans''? Why can't I remember anything? My mind has made a list of tons of possibilities, but none of them are plausible. I open the mouth I know I have to have. It squeaks like my jaw has never been opened or like it's old. But since I don't remember anything, it must have never been opened. Unless he's just suffering from amnesia. Amnesia. Noun. Memory loss often due to brain injury, shock, tiredness, or illness. An empty spot in the memory. Neglecting, ignoring or forgetting events that are not useful to one's life.No. No. Why are they in a box? “He doesn't speak,” says the face. His lips move several seconds before I hear the words,......in the center of the paper......and in the sound between my lips and my ears. I find my way to the door without worrying if my senses never work well. I just want to escape these people who think they treat me well, but see me as less than humanity. I know what humanity is now. It's not something that can be defined in a few short words. It's all the flaws, perfection and feelings that make up life. I'm sure I don't have to be human to feel that. What is humanity, anyway? Emilia hurries to hand me a bag of things and something else: a manual. Telling me how to behave like a human, I'm sure. She says she's sorry. I feel the moisture coming out of my eyes, and then I feel something more: a nagging ache that makes my insides churn. It makes me want to run, to walk out this door and live without any of this. I take the bag. I push myself out this door. I run.