There's something distinctly unsettling about muscle memory that doesn't belong to you. Jim had been experiencing this phenomenon with increasing frequency—finding himself tying surgical knots in random pieces of string, instinctively reaching for Sam's favorite mug in the morning, or cutting vegetables with the precise technique of someone who'd spent years in med school perfecting the art of human dissection.
Today's involuntary channeling was particularly strange: Jim had just spent forty-five minutes organizing the spice rack alphabetically, something the old Jim would have found about as appealing as performing dental surgery on a crocodile. Yet here he was, admiring his handiwork, feeling an inexplicable sense of satisfaction that definitely belonged to someone else's neural pathway
