Woke up early ... still dark outside ... ward lights were dim ... something ... not memory ... realization ... someone had died - several weeks ago - from bullet in head. That person was dead - not problem with memory, no memories to recall. Memories were other person's. Dead person's memories.

Felt like knot had just untied ... so simple really. Had been born yesterday ... or day before ...

Not like baby. Could speak. Could write. Remembered lots of things.

Sat up quietly, folded legs, went inside ... borders of emptiness were easier to locate. Perfectly reasonable, really. Of course no personal memories. Of course no name. Name was Alex Tambeau - Alexander Jason Tambeau. Had named self ... I ... I had named self. Myself.

I ... meaning this person ... small speck in empty space. Like an island in a wine dark sea.

I ... Alex ... a center point ... a self ... alone ... but not alone ... into this world we come ... from this world we depart ... but who ... who had departed ... who had he been ... why had he gone ... a bullet, yes ... but why ... whose hand had been the mover ... was it karma ... why ... but why this person ... who was Alex ... not he who died but this person who lived ... who had awakened ... I ... a word ... meaning Alex ... Alex a word meaning I ... but who was Alex ... I ... I was Alex ... Alex was I ... an island in an empty sea ... the sea without ripples ... the borders so far ... borders and lands ... I ... alone ... I ... Alex ...

* * *

"¿Señor? Buenas dias, Señor Tambeau. ¿Como esta?"

"Esta bien, gracias, Caesar. ¿E usted?"

"Bien, gracias," Caesar was smiling. "¿You do sazen again, si?"

"Zazen, si. ¿Que pasa?"

"Nada mucho," Caesar admitted - 'nothing much'. "Need anything today?"

"Nada, gracias," thanked him - correction, I thanked him. Memories came back - my memories - a small speck in a wide and empty sea but this much - at least - was mine.

Fog outside the windows - everything obscured, hazy. Comic contrast of a jesting god - fog covering the world outside, clear inside ... clear for the first time in two days ... no, correction, first time in entire life. Of course, entire life only two days but still ...

I ... first person singular pronoun ... meaning self ... must remember to say I ... I must remember to say I. I was Alex. Wondered no one had remarked fact that hadn't said ... that I hadn't said 'I' at any time. Still felt ... awkward. Strange.

Laughed aloud - startled George across the ward, fishing for his slippers - "Good morning, George," greeted him - I greeted him. "A lovely day isn't it?" Laughed again. It was a good day to be alive. Legs - my legs, reminded self - felt better too. Stronger. Started toward bath, then stopped to offer George a hand.

* * *

"Well, I guess there's no point in asking how you feel today," Dr. Patel greeted me. "You look quite revived. You slept well?"

"Very well, thank you. A lovely day."

"You are feeling well, calling a bay fog lovely."

"Oh, it is, I ... I assure you."

A puzzled expression crossed the Doctor's face, then vanished, replaced by other concerns. I didn't explain.

"Well, then. Suppose we take a look at your face," she decided. "If the stitches are ready to come out, maybe you can get a look at yourself. Took a bit of reconstruction - the exit wound is always worse. Fractured cheekbone, rebuilt nose ... ah," she removed the bandages with a sudden jerk, "yes, much better. Humh, maybe another day for the stitches. You know about the plastic implant? Part of the cheekbone and the septum? Shouldn't be much scaring though. Oh ..."

"Yes?"

"I don't suppose you will know, will you? Whether you've changed or not, I mean. Unless your memory returns, that is. Any progress?"

"Unimportant," I assured her. "What about the stitches? They do itch somewhat."

"I think we can take most of them out. I'll have an orderly take you to down the hall in a few minutes and we'll get you cleaned up. I'd prefer to leave a couple of them for a few days - next to the nose."

* * *

It was an interesting face anyway. Not the stuff of Hollywood dreams, perhaps, but adequate. Also rather mottled. Patchy where new skin was pale in contrast to the tanned older skin. Three stitches along the side of the nose - neat black threads along a reddish line - looked like bad Halloween makeup. The nose itself was quite smooth - almost too symmetrical. And the face as a whole was a little bony - not starved, just not filled out entirely. Small wonder after six weeks on an IV drip.

The face was also unfamiliar. Shouldn't have been a surprise really. Since this was the first time had seen it thoroughly. Made a mental note to let Captain Donavi trim the beard and mustache - both were really quite shaggy.

When the nurse finished snipping the sutures - and bathing my face with alcohol-soaked swabs - most of the itch was gone. Still, a cautious scratch was a long overdue pleasure. Strange the demands of the foolish body - return from death, recover from a coma and all it wants is to be scratched. Like a dog or cat.

Scratched anyway - felt wonderful!

* * *

Another battery of tests scheduled. More questions but these also didn't have simple answers. Or, more accurately, most didn't have answers at all. All were situational questions with insufficient information to arrive at a concrete answer.

Instead of answering the questions at all, I wrote brief notes for each, outlining the missing information and indicating several solutions. Wasn't pleased particularly with the results but it was the best that could be done with the information provided. Or, maybe, that was the point of the questions. I wasn't sure at all.

* * *

Back at the ward, Captain Donavi had obtained a pair of surgical scissors and a spare sheet and was operating a barber shop in the lavatory.

"Alex, come in," he greeted me. "You're next if you're ready."

"Can wait," I offered. "No rush."

"No, my friend. Take a chair. Won't be a moment, eh? Hardly recognize you without bandages. You look much better today. Now," he turned back to his 'client', "how about the mustache? A little trim, eh?"

* * *

"Lieutenant Grayson, please ... yes, I can hold ..." Lacking twenty-cents for the pay phone, I'd borrowed a phone at the nurse's station, claming "official business" - which it was really. "Good morning, Lieutenant. Alex Tambeau, here" - the name was sounding almost familiar - "Nothing serious, just wanted to tell you the bandages were off. A couple of stitches still by the nose but you can send your shutterbug by if you like ... No, anytime's fine. I'm not going anywhere at the moment."

* * *

"I think a mustache," I trumped the hand. "Maybe a handlebar mustache. You know wax and twirl?" Tried to twirl own mustache. No luck, Captain had left it neatly trimmed, nothing to twist.

"And have all my clients called in for audits?" Wills shook his head. "No, I need a change but not that." He rubbed his face, uncomfortable with the unaccustomed stubble.

Wills had introduced the subject earlier, saying he felt like he need a change of life and talking about changing his hair style. He'd also omitted shaving that morning. Counter argument was that a change in hairstyle was something only other people saw. George - before leaving to use the phone - had suggested a full beard and a new wardrobe. At the moment, Captain Donavi and I were pressing for the beard ... or mustache.

"Wrong face - too narrow. Handlebar wants a thick square face," Captain Donavi offered. "Maybe mustache and goatee, eh? Just the thing for you. Make a new man out of you. Maybe you take a few months vacation - sign on with me for a cruise. Swab a few desks, get some sun, that'll put you right. No ulcers on the high seas, mate."

"Can't see it," Leo disagreed. "Forget the beard. Get a hair weave - make you twenty years younger." Leo patted his own luxuriant brush. Leo was sitting in for George who was trying to straighten out a delivery mixup with his son, George Junior. "Drop the glasses too, try contact lenses."

"Who wants to be twenty years younger," Wills countered. "If I'd had any sense twenty years ago, I wouldn't have ulcers now. Maybe I'll try the goatee - nothing too extreme though. Whose deal is it, anyway?"

"I think you ought to take the Captain up on his offer. My deal, I think," I gathered the cards to shuffle. "Don't accountants have slack seasons?"

"Sure, anytime after April fifteenth - rest of the year is slack season. But ... swabbing decks ... better than swabbing desks, I suppose."

"You have accounting positions aboard ship don't you, Captain? Purser's office is accounting isn't it?"

"Purser, eh? Purser on Andromea's my wife. Might work - maybe Illya might like a vacation - chance to see her folks, eh? Put you in for a trip or two? Swabbing decks better for you though. Get you some sun, fresh air. I tell you I married ship and wife? Now wife run off with ship, some joke, eh?"

"I'll think about it," Wills laughed. "See how I feel when they let me out of here. You know, it just might work ..."

"When will the Andromea be back?"

"Few weeks - maybe time enough to get leg back, eh? Maybe time enough for Illya to miss Captain." He laughed.

I grinned and dealt.

* * *

After lunch, George's daughter dropped by - carrying a well-stuffed garment bag. "Try these," she suggested. "All your sizes. If they don't fit - or if you don't like the styles - no problem. I can take them back. Wasn't sure what you liked."

"No idea either," I answered honestly. "Ah ... Thank you."

"No problem," she grinned. "Boy friend's about your size. Works at Big And Tall, he's got so many clothes he's always donating things he's tired of. I wasn't sure how you'd feel about the flash look - I mean ..."

"Mai pen rhy! No problem," I assured her, laying the bag across the bed and zipping it open. Two sports suits - one light colored, linen-look synthetic, one medium blue jacket and darker slacks - three pairs of slacks - gray, brown and tan - half a dozen shirts ranging from a patterned silver-gray in a glossy material to a couple of short-sleeve knits in bright solids. Another hanger held several ties - assorted patterns. In the bottom of the bag, a couple of packages - unopened - of cotton briefs and an assortment of socks ... with the manufacturer's tags still hanging by thin plastic threads.

Tried the silver-gray shirt - blowzy sleeves, tight cuffs, wide collar - fit was okay though.

Held the pants up to my waist - a little public for changing, I was wearing my only pair. Still, the size looked right.

"Give the man a chance to dress," George ordered. "Some of Jerome's cast-offs? Good thinking, should be about right. Here, pull the curtains." He suited action to words, drawing his daughter out into the common area.

I finished changing, choosing the dark blue slacks. The pants were long enough and about right in the waist - needed the belt though - a little loose, like I'd lost some weight. The old pants had been slightly loose too. Funny, putting the belt on, fingers kept feeling the bottom seam. I'd have to look at it later.

Left the shirt open at the collar, then added the light blue jacket and pulled the curtain back.

"Hey," Keri exclaimed. "Totally smooth. Lookin' good!"

"Suits you," George agreed. "You look like you're ready to boogie."

"Needs shoes," Keri correct. "Sock hops went out with your generation, daddio." The name was applied affectionately to her father, another reminder that George was a very lucky man. While she spoke, Keri was digging in her copious shoulder bag to produce a shoe scale. "Here, step on this," she continued, laying the device on the floor. "Let's see what size you need."

The answer was an eleven, narrow.

"That's easy," Keri decided. "I'll drop by Goodwill and get you a couple of styles. You like loafers or lace-ups? Never mind, let's see what I can score. Got to run now. Later. Need anything, dad?" She tucked the scale back in her bag, hugged George and breezed out - a whirlwind of youthful energy.

* * *

Both jackets and the slacks all fit quite well ... as did the shirts. Maybe the jackets were a rather youthful cut - 'flash' had been Keri's term - but they were good material and comfortable. Settled for one of the knit shirts - the softer yellow one - together with the gray slacks. Fingers wanted to check the belt again.

I decided to take a walk around the corridors - needed the exercise anyway - then slipped into one of the public bathrooms by the waiting rooms - the ones with private stalls - where I could examine the belt without anyone observing.

The belt was a little more than an inch wide - an inch and a quarter, perhaps. The buckle was unmarked brass with two loops stitched beyond the buckle. The outside of the belt was dark brown leather, the inside a medium brown. Wear marks showed where it was normally buckled. Not a new belt but a good one.

On examination, the belt's bottom seam opened with a plastic zipper - like the kind used on storage bags except this one seemed to be finer and effectively invisible when closed. The seam didn't open easily - it took a fingernail in the seam to force it to unzip after which the entire nine or ten inches - the center third of the belt's length - gapped open, providing a compartment nine or ten inches long and an inch deep, lined with a springy material to keep the belt's shape. The compartment extended about two inches past the opening at each end.

Inside the compartment, two folded lengths of paper - green engraving on a textured off-white paper - showed a building and flanking trees. Turning the folded length over, the numbers 100 flanked each side of the engraved words "ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS" - the bottom third of a hundred dollar bill.

Unfolded them - four in each set, eight in all - the fronts showed Benjamin Franklin, his portrait off-center to the left, the denominations repeated. Eight, new-style hundred dollar bills. The serial numbers were consecutive.

I held one of the bills up to the light. The security thread just to the left of the frame around Franklin's portrait was easily visible if not quite readable against the florescent lighting. The 100 denomination in the lower right on the front shifted from green to black as I tilted the note.

If these were slush - counterfeit - they were top notch ... paper, engraving and security features. It made more sense to assume they were real rather than queer.

Checked the belt compartment again - two more items.

One was a slip of paper, folded several times. It was a light-weight paper, semi-translucent. The paper held a short list of figures - three columns, nine rows. The first column looked like dates while the second and third were amounts. The dates - month and year only - were at three month intervals, covering a bit more than two years, ending in December. The amount columns didn't mean much ... except that the third column entry was always smaller - by twenty-five to fifty percent - than the second.

The last item - a slip about an inch wide, an inch and a half long and plastic laminated - held three sequences of letters and numbers with each following a different arrangement. The first sequence began with FJ and continued with six digits, no breaks - then there was a space and a lower-case p. The second was all numbers, broken in a 3-5-1-1 pattern followed by a WS in caps. The last entry was 3 digits, then 5, followed by a space and the capitals BS. The slip looked like it had been printed - on a laser printer or something similar.

None of these stirred any memories.

Finally, took one of the hundreds, folded it in half and tucked it in my pants pocket. Refolded the remainder, length-wise in thirds, and returned them to the belt compartment, adding the small laminated card and the hand-written note.

Ran my fingers along the seam - the zipper closed securely. Invisibly.

It was one more mystery ... or three more? ... but worth thinking about.

* * *

"I remember a story - by Manning Coles - where a man was injured in an explosion, lost his memory," Wills recounted. "This was in post-war Germany - post World War I. Anyway, he became a whole new person, wound up as some kind of official in the new Germany, then suddenly got his memory back."

"Toast to Tomorrow, Tommy Hambledon, British Secret Service," I supplied. "Can't remember what name he was using in Germany but wasn't he supposed to be the assistant chief of police? In Cobden, was it? When he regained his memory?"

"Yeah, something like that. Or Berlin. He was always crossing horns with Goebels. Anyway, damned good book. Better than some of the later ones. Maybe that's what happened to you - you were some kind of spy or something."

"I doubt it," I laughed. "And I'd make a terrible policeman. Too much paperwork, too much routine."

"You're right, you know. That's the kind of thing they never put in the books - probably just as dull as being a CPA, right?"

"Probably. Thinking about taking the Captain up on his offer?"

"You know, it is sounding awfully attractive. I could get Tanner to cover for me - he's no busier at this season than I am. Take a month or two for a cruise ... might be just the thing ..."

"Uh, something hadn't occurred to me ... what season is it anyway? What month?"

"May. May 23rd," Wills blinked, then added the year.

* * *

Caesar was looking for me. "Hey, uno hildago grande, you looking sharp," Caesar greeted me, adding a suggestion that we go bar hopping sometime - that he knew just the kind of places I'd fit in. At the moment, however, the optometrist had called from downstairs - he had a pair of glasses ready for fitting.

I thanked Caesar ... and declined the wheelchair. Walking was tiring, yes, but it was also making me feel stronger.

But I did wait for the elevator rather than trying the stairs.

I stopped at the hospital gift-shop on the way. Found a pair of nail clippers, a spiral steno pad and a better pen than the mortuary-supplied advertising item. The clerk didn't seem exceptionally surprised when I offered the hundred as payment.

The change was mostly twenties and ones. I folded the bills in one pocket, dropping the loose coins in another. The shop also offered wallets and other leather-goods but common sense suggested that prices would be cheaper elsewhere. It wasn't like I had a whole lot that I needed a wallet for at the moment.

The glasses were a great improvement. Sure, the frames were second-hand but they fit and the lenses were right.

"No, this is great," I waved away the optometrist's concerns. "Everything looks really sharp."

"Still, I'd like to see you in two weeks," he insisted. "After a cranial injury like yours, the focus may shift a bit as you recover. If we'd tried to fit you immediately after the injury, the prescription might not have lasted more than a few hours. And, even now, there may be extensive changes in both your myopia and astigmatism over the next few weeks or even months. If you start having headaches or eyestrain, you can come in sooner."

"Then," I thought about it, "this prescription wouldn't match what I" - I almost said "he" - "was wearing before the injury?"

"Not at all. Similar maybe. And the left eye might not have changed that much. But the right eye did suffer considerable trauma even if it escaped direct injury. The bone socket surrounding the eye was intact but ..."

But the bottom line was that the current prescription wouldn't offer any real clues to my previous identity.

And the police had already drawn a blank on my fingerprints.

And I knew from my chart that my blood group was O, rhesus positive - the commonest blood type of all.

I thanked the optometrist again, accepted a case for the glasses and tissues for polishing the lenses and promised to return for a checkup in two weeks.

He also gave me a card with a reminder. Isn't civilization wonderful? At this rate, I was going to need a wallet. In the mean time, tucked the card in the glasses case.

* * *

"You mentioned Manning Coles earlier," I reminded Wills, then asked, "You ever read his 'Brief Candles'? Or 'Happy Returns'?"

"Yeah, I think so," Wills considered. "Kind of like ghost stories weren't they? About the time the Topper series was so popular? Why?"

"No particular reason," I dissembled. "Just remembering." Both books had featured two cousins who had died - executed in France? Or was it Spain? Sometime after the American Civil War, anyway - during an uprising of some sort. One had been an American, one had been British. In 'Brief Candles', the two cousins had come back - as ghosts with solid form - to help right a wrong involving relatives.

Not that I believe in ghosts or anything ... but then ... I was here.

Now, if I could just talk to the ghost of whoever had been me before ...

Fiction's always simpler, it's reality that's full of sticky edges. Or something like that.

Besides, ghosts don't have stitches to be taken out ...

* * *

Pinochle had become a ward-wide craze and, given a chance, I thought, it might take over the hospital. At the moment, there were three games going and onlookers for each - half were visitors from other wards. If the gift-shop hadn't run out of pinochle decks, there might have been four or five games going.

As it was, one individual had also bought all of the regular playing decks and discarded the low cards to make pinochle decks.

As for our game - as the resident experts - the Captain, Wills, George and I were continually being asked for explanations, rulings and playing instructions.

It made for a very interrupted game.

* * *

Dinner broke up most of the games and evening visiting hours had their own interruptions with wives, family, relatives and friends showing up to check on various patients.

George was with George Junior. We'd been introduced - briefly - when George Junior had delivered an assortment of shoes sent by his sister. At the moment, however, the older and younger Georges were elsewhere, conferring over business matters, I presumed.

The shoes - gratefully accepted - had been an assortment but had yielded two pairs of used but good loafers which fitted well enough ... and, a treasure, a pair of blemished but unworn Birkenstock sandals. The sandals featured well padded and contoured insoles, providing a comfortable fit and walking grip. While human feet are less than prehensile, a properly contoured sandal allows our toes to grip as we walk is vastly preferable to having our feet encased in cramped, hot, sweaty substitutes for hooves.

Wills - who hadn't told his kids where he was - had told associates. At the moment, he was in a huddle with two of them, a briefcase full of folders spread across his bed and three pocket calculators being punched like they were video games.

For the Captain, since his wife and associates were somewhere on the high seas ... if not loading or unload in some foreign port, visits were a matter of telephone calls and had their own hours. And, as I was expecting no visitors at all, the Captain and I were passing the time indulging a game of tivoli.

I was also doing a bit better today - so far, I'd won the second of our three games ... and hadn't done too badly in the first and third.

"Good evening, Captain Donavi," a voice interrupted. "Mr. Tambeau?" The speaker was middle-aged, a tall man with a gray beard and no mustache, dressed in a short-sleeved black shirt - with roman collar - and gray slacks. "I'm Father Hardesty," he offered his hand.

"Good evening, Father," I rose and accepted the hand, shaking briefly.

"Am I interrupting?" Father Hardesty asked politely.

"Nothing drastic. May I help you?"

"Rather the other way around," the Father corrected. "I was wondering if I could offer you any assistance. Dr. Patel asked me to stop by and arrange a meeting. Not to interrupt your game," he hastened to add, "I have another appointment in ten minutes. But if you could drop by my office - in about an hour, if that would be convenient?"

I agreed, accepting directions.

"About seven then," he confirmed, taking his leave.

I sat back down, reaching for the dice. "You know Father Hardesty?" I asked the Captain.

"Met him," Captain Donavi agreed. "Orthodox, myself - not that I'm that orthodox," he laughed. "Why don't you ask George - knows him better." Greek Orthodox was what the Captain referred to - similar to Catholic but a different hierarchy.

We resumed play. Got lucky, rolled a double six.

* * *

"Sure, I know Father Hardesty," George agreed. "Clinical psychologist / therapist - one of our new breed of non-pastoral priests."

"But you have reservations?" I sensed something - not sure why, maybe an undertone in George's voice? Maybe the way his stance had shifted when I asked?

"Look, don't get me wrong, Alex. Father Hardesty's a good man, helps people, does a lot of good ... just, well, maybe he's a little closed minded about some things. A little too doctrinaire sometimes - particularly about what he doesn't understand. Hey, go talk to him. I should have suggested it myself. See what he can offer."

* * *

Father Hardesty's office - I'd expected something with traditional Roman-Catholic imagery - was a small room across the hall from the hospital chapel, decorated more than anything else by shelves of books, a set of file cabinets, a desk half-buried under papers and magazines, a computer terminal and three coffee cups. The only religious item in evidence - the Father excepted - was a simple crucifix on the wall.

"Sorry about the mess," he offered his hand and we shook again. "And thanks for coming down - I've been a little snowed under with paperwork. Would you care for coffee? Or a soft drink?"

The Lieutenant had been right about hospital coffee - I accepted the soda instead. I also remember seeing Father Hardesty in the ward once or twice before - once, I recalled, as I'd been leaving for tests and a second time while the Captain and I had been playing tivoli.

"Dr. Patel asked me to talk to you," he repeated his earlier explanation, settling back in his chair after providing a cold Pepsi for me and coffee for himself. "How are you feeling?"

In this case, I guessed that he didn't mean physically. "I am not uncomfortable," I answered. "Somewhat empty perhaps - a tabla rasa, so to speak." I wasn't sure what to tell him ... or how much. Theoretically - or religiously, at least - I could assume that he believed in rebirth ... both in the spiritual sense and, in at least one instance, in the physical sense.

On the other hand, I wasn't going to offer evidence - however peripheral - of a Jesus complex ... or a Lasarus complex, perhaps. Maybe it was George's assessment - "a little closed minded about some things. A little too doctrinaire sometimes." Or maybe I was just feeling reticent.

I wanted some answers, yes, but not the religious kind ... I wasn't interested in matters of souls and morality - only in matters of fact: of what and why and, of course, who. And these didn't fall in Father Hardesty's parvenu.

Therefore, to answer his questions, I replied more in the material than the psychological.

"I have clothes and sandals," I gestured at the Birkenstocks. "I've been fed, provided with glasses and I have a roof over my head. And I am well if still somewhat weak. When I leave here, I've been offered shelter with friends. Actually," I grinned suddenly, "if you could see some of the clothing I've received, I might be tempted to quote that line about the lilies of the field."

"As in 'Solomon in all his glory'?" Father Hardesty returned a cautious smile.

"Exactly. A bit 'flash' as Keri phrased it." The yellow knit and gray slacks I wore were the more restrained choices from the selection. "But they're good clothes, well made, good fabric. And I rather like them, actually. Just that I have trouble imagining buying clothes like these. A strange hangup maybe.

"I suppose," I continued, "that I'll be leaving here before too long. And, no, before you ask, I haven't made many plans yet. Look for a job to start. Try to find out a few things. Create a new life? Discover my likes and dislikes? See what there is to see ... and do ..."

"Still, things feel ... proper. Does that sound odd?"

"That," Father Hardesty considered, "sounds like a man who is comfortable with himself. Tell me, I know you've lost your memory ... and I've heard stories about your habit of meditation ... are you a religious man?"

"I ... I have no idea. No offense but I don't think I'm Catholic, if that's what you mean."

"No," Father Hardesty shook his head, "that wasn't. I'm not exactly here in a missionary capacity. No, it was more a question of did you feel drawn to any religion in particular. If you would feel more comfortable talking to a Protestant minister - or a Rabbi ...?"

"Not particularly," I admitted. "You mentioned Dr. Patel?"

"Yes, she asked me to talk to you. To see if there was anything ... How do I put this? Do you have any specific plans? As for finding a job after leaving the hospital, I mean?"

"Not exactly ... nothing firm yet. I've been wondering ... I guess I'll have to find a job of some sort. Kind of quandary really - I'm not sure what I'm qualified for. I mean, with no memory and no references ... Still, there are always openings for unskilled labor ... and an opening is all that one can ask for."

"I hope you don't mind," the Father apologized, "but I've heard the results of some of the test battery you took. It seems that you have an exceptional I. Q., that you seem to be emotionally stable - amnesia aside - and I'm told you speak several languages. You're obviously educated. The situational ethics test battery you completed was rather interesting - very concise analysis on several points. While it tells very little about your ethical standard, you seem to have a well developed facility for analysis.

"Still, one of the reasons Dr. Patel asked me to speak with you was because - medically - there doesn't seem to be any reason for you to stay here.

"I don't mean that they're planning to kick you out on the street or anything - severe amnesia is certainly excuse enough to maintain you as an inpatient. Just that amnesia aside, you seem to be very well recovered. If you were an Alzheimer's patient, I'd be recommending some form of managed care. In your case, however, you seem to be perfectly capable of caring for yourself. Unless, of course, there's some factor that hasn't appeared yet.

"At any rate, there are a number of programs - some church sponsored, some state - where you could receive outpatient treatment. In your case, the main objective would be to find out what you were suited to and to find a position where you could get on with your life. Also, both Doctor Patel and Doctor Norfeld would like to follow your progress - if you have no objections - but there isn't really much more the hospital can do on an inpatient basis.

"I would, of course, like to arrange for counseling to help you cope with your memory loss. It's perfectly normal that you should be feeling angst. A degree of helplessness? Anger even?" - the Father was wrong really, I wasn't feeling any of these and saw no reason to - "This is all perfectly natural," he continued. "But there are ways to cope with these emotional upsets and ..."

I listened but the symptoms ... well, they just didn't relate ... to me or to anything I was feeling ... Should I be feeling like that? Lost? Upset? Angry? I had felt annoyed - several times. Ein belidieg du lieberwurst, maybe? And I felt a sense of purpose - I was certainly going to have to discover what had happened to the previous me. Which probably meant who and why as well. But anger, no ... Annoyance was about the best I could muster at the moment. Everything else was ... too removed. Impersonal. Like something that happened to someone else.

Which was natural enough - it had. Happened to someone else, that is.

For the moment, I let Father Hardesty ramble, listening for anything relevant - personally relevant, I mean.

"So, the question is," Father Hardesty concluded, "would you like to explore some options? And do you have any preferences or ideas?"

Ideas? Yes, I had lots of them. Preferences? Not really.

But Father Hardesty suggested several possibilities - several unintentionally. And his desk had suggested another ... and told me what one missing item was. Not that I'd known it was missing ... not until a moment ago.

"Actually," I considered, "I do have a couple of options. But, yes, I could use some assistance as well ..."

It took a while to outline my ideas but Father Hardesty, it appeared, was going to be a very valuable resource.

I hoped he wasn't going to be too insistent on the counseling.