He said two words at a stranger. It cost him a year.Del Ardoin is thirty-three, good at his job, and one season away from people knowing his name. On a hundred-and-one-degree Saturday at a Texas theme park, four teenagers ask to take his picture. He lets them. Walking away, for no reason he will ever be able to explain, he does a bad impression in a voice that is not his.Fourteen months later his face is selling things he has never heard of, in languages he does not speak, to people he will never meet. The face is his. The voice is his. The spiral running up his left side - five numerals he chose at nineteen, and the one thing about himself he has never told anybody - is rendered correctly, to the digit.There is no law that helps him. There is nobody to sue and nobody to accuse. There is a spreadsheet he cannot stop adding to, a wife who asked him for a number he would not give her, and a son who has started counting the months.Then a man drives all night from Tulsa, stands on the front step with a folder under his arm, and tells him what his face has been doing.A novel about the difference between being seen and being used, and about what a person is worth when the only proof he was there is a mark he never meant anybody to see.