Wrong Man, Same Name

Děj

Scott went to answer the door. The man who came back was soaking wet, smelled like rain, and let me hold him. I asked why his jacket was dripping. He said a delivery, in this storm. When my hand brushed something heavy on the floor, he told me it was a mannequin for practicing acupuncture — a new way to help me see again. I cried, because nobody had ever tried that hard for me. The real Scott was lying three feet away with tape over his mouth. I’m blind. I had no idea I was holding the wrong man.