The case worker looked down at the file on her desk with sad eyes. People often looked at her and thought she was older than her years because of those eyes. She had the eyes of a woman who had worked for the Unemployment Office for ten years, and who felt every day of those ten years acutely. She'd already used up her vacation days for the year, but maybe if she cut into some of her sick leave . . . . Sharon shook herself out of her fugue and focused on the page before her.

Standard white paper in a standard tan folder. Very thin, indicating no previous records. A photograph of a man in his early middle ages, rather distinguished, but otherwise unremarkable. Sharon gave a sigh as she read the name once again. I. A. Jehovah. Obviously an assumed name, probably some religious nut who didn't have the social skills to hold down a decent job. She looked for his history and wasn't surprised to find it blank. This was his first visit to Unemployment, and it was her job to make it his last. She had lost faith in her ability to help anyone, but particularly when misfits were involved. The information on her sheet was sparse, and there was a list of previous aliases, which she took as confirmation of her fears. This one would probably be a hustler.

Putting on her best face possible (the one she hoped would look hard and discouraging to any double-talk), she called out, "Mr. Jehovah?"

A man in a proper business suit and tie stood up, clutching a modest leather briefcase. He was tall, well groomed and pretty much like the respectable man in the photograph. She reminded herself that the respectable ones almost always weren't.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Encino," he said pleasantly as he took his seat opposite her. "I'm very glad to meet you in person."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Jehovah," she said as nicely as she could. She found herself having a little trouble getting past his odd name choice. "I'm afraid your application is a little sketchy, so I'll appreciate your cooperation with filling in the details, okay?"

"I'll be happy to explain anything as well as I can," he assured her. An odd mood settled over her, until she realized that she found the rich timbre of his voice enthralling. She forced herself to pay attention to the business at hand.

"Well, for starters, I want to ask about your name," she began.

"My name?"

"It's a little . . . unusual." Her eyes ran over the lengthy list of aliases on the sheet. "When did you change it?"

"I haven't changed my name," he told her seriously. "I've always had it."

"But you also list these other names."

"People have called me by many names for a long time," he explained. "The names I've been given are too numerous to list here, so I gave you the most common ones."

"I find that very odd," she remarked. She continued to stare at the sheet as if it could give her some divine guidance. All she could note was the beginning of a level 8 headache. "I. A. Jehovah. What does the I. A. stand for?"

There was a slight pause which seemed slightly embarrassed, as if he knew what she would think of his next words. Then he said quietly, "I Am."

She looked up and stared at him. He really wasn't kidding. "I Am? What kind of name is that?"

He looked her in the eye a bit defensively. "It's my name. At least, one of them."