On the Tuesday of the second week of what was fast becoming a surrealistic quagmire, I met Isabel. She was the very last in a long list of appointments and I kept praying that she would not keep hers, as many of them were wont to do. But she did and punctually so. I was struck by her regal bearing, her poise, her coiffed hair, and her dazzling but tasteful jewelry. Her equine face and aquiline nose meshed well with just a hint of the oriental slant and cheekbones to render her exotic. She sat unbidden and watched me intently, benignly ignoring my rhetorical question: "You are Isabel Kidlington, aren't you?" Of course she was. Three centuries ago, her family established an eponymous town, now sunken beneath the calm surface of the lake. Our first meeting ended frostily and unproductively but, in the fullness of time, as she opened up to me, I found myself looking forward to our encounters. I always scheduled her last, so that I could exceed the 45 minutes straightjacket of the classic therapy session. She was the first person in a long time - who am I kidding? the first person ever - who really listened to what I had to say. She rarely spoke, but, when she did, it was with the twin authority of age and wisdom. I guess I grew to love and respect her. I wasn't sure why Isabel sought my meager services. She possessed enough common sense and fortitude to put to shame any therapist I knew. She never asked for my advice or shared her problems with me. She just made an appearance at the appointed time and sat there, back erect, hands resting in her lap, her best ear forward, the better to capture my whining litany and to commiserate. One day, though, she entered my crude office and remained standing. "Isabel," - I enquired - "is everything alright?" "You know that I have been provided with a residence on Elm Street, now that my family home is underwater." The "residence" was an imposing mansion, with an enormous driveway, an English, sculpted garden, and a series of working fountains. Isabel rented the place from a British-Canadian mogul of sorts, as she disdainfully informed me a while back. "It's been invaded by strangers." - She made a dramatic announcement. I looked at her, not comprehending: "You mean burglars? Squatters? Who are these strangers? Why don't you call the Police to evict them? It could be dangerous, you know!" She waved away my concerned pleas impatiently: "I can't call the police to evict them because they have assumed the bodies of my family members." When she saw the bafflement in my eyes, she reiterated slowly, as if aiming to get through to a slow-witted, yet cherished, interlocutor: "These invaders - they look like my husband and my son. But they are not. They are doubles. They are somehow wrong, fake, ersatz, if you know what I mean." I didn't. "I love my real relatives but not the current occupants of their corporeal remains. I keep my door locked at night!" She made it sound like an unprecedented event.