He looks again to the woman, who studies him coolly. Now that his focus is better, he can see the pattern of the blouse.

“Paste . . . palsy . . . hailey.”

“Keep trying,” says the woman. “It’s in there somewhere.”

His brain twitches. He struggles. Thinking feels like a race. A long, grueling Olympic race. What is that race called? It starts with an M.

“Paisley!” he says triumphantly. “Marathon! Paisley!”

“Yes, I imagine this is as exhausting as a marathon for you,” says the woman, “but it was worth the effort.” She touches the collar of her blouse. “You’re right, it does have a paisley pattern!” She smiles, this time for real, and touches his forehead with her fingertip. He can feel the tip of her nail. “I told you it was in there.”

Now that his thoughts are beginning to settle, he realizes that he does recognize the woman, but has no idea from where.

“Who?” he asks. “Who? Where? When?”

“How, what, and why,” she adds with a smirk. “Your question words have all returned.”

“Who?” he demands again, not appreciating the joke at his expense.

She sighs. “Who am I? You can say I’m your touchstone, your connection to the world—and in a sense your translator, because I can understand you, where few others can. I’m an expert in metalinguistics.”

“Meta . . . meta.”

“It’s the nature of the language you speak. Metaphoric associations. But I can see I’m confusing you. It’s not for you to worry about. My name is Roberta. But you wouldn’t know that, because I never told you my name in all the times you’ve seen me.”

“All the times?”

Roberta nods. “You can say you’ve only seen me once, yet you’ve also seen me many, many times. What do you think of that?”

It’s a marathon again as he searches through his mind for the word he wants to say. “Gollum in the caves. Answer, or you can’t cross the bridge. What’s black and white and red all over?”

“Work for it,” says Roberta. “I know you can do it.”

“Riddle!” he says. “Yes, marathon but worth it! The word—riddle!”

“Very good.” Roberta gently touches his hand. He takes a long look at her. She is older than him. He knows this, even though he has no idea how old he actually is. She’s pretty, in a motherly sort of way. Blond hair with a hint of brown roots, and just a little makeup. Her eyes seem younger than the rest of her face. But that blouse . . .

“Medusa,” he says. “Crone. Witch. Crooked, rotten teeth.”

She stiffens a bit. “You think I’m ugly?”

“Uuuugly!” he says, savoring the word. “No, not you! Ugly green paisley ugly.”

Roberta laughs, relieved, and glances down at her blouse. “Well, I guess there’s no accounting for taste, is there?”

Accounting! Accountant! My father was an accountant! No—a policeman. No—a factory worker. No—lawyer, construction worker, pharmacist, dentist, unemployed, dead. His thoughts are all true, and all false. His own mind is a riddle that he can’t hope to solve. He feels the fear that Roberta told him he must feel. It wells up again, and he begins to struggle once more against his bonds. They’re not just bonds, though; some of them are bandages.

“Who?” he asks again.

“I already told you,” Roberta says. “Don’t you remember?”

“No! Who?” he asks. “Who?”

Roberta raises her eyebrows in understanding. “Oh. Who are you?”

He waits anxiously for an answer.

“Well, that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? Who are you?” She taps her fingertips on her chin, considering it. “The committee could not agree on a name. Of course, everyone has an opinion, the pompous buffoons. So, while they’re dickering about it, perhaps you can choose one for yourself.”

“Choose?” But why must he choose a name? Shouldn’t he already have one? He runs a series of names through his mind: Matthew, Johnny, Eric, José, Chris, Alex, Spencer—and although some of them seem more likely than others, none of them hold the sense of identity that a true name should have. He shakes his head, trying to push something—anything—about himself into its proper place, but shaking his head only makes it hurt.

“Aspirin,” he says. “Tylenol-aspirin, then count the sheep.”

“Yes, I imagine you must still be tired. We’ll up your pain medication, and I’ll leave you to get some rest. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

She pats his hand, then strides out of the room, turning off the light and leaving him alone with thought fragments that won’t as much as shake hands with one another in the dark.

•   •   •

The next day—or at least he thinks it’s the next day—he’s not quite so tired, and his head doesn’t hurt as much, but he’s still just as confused. He now suspects that the white room that he took for a hospital room is not. There were enough hints in the architecture to suggest he was in some private residence that had been retrofitted for the convalescence of a single patient. There is a sound beyond the window that he can hear even when the window is closed. A constant rhythmic roar and hiss. Only after a day of hearing it does he realize what it is. Crashing waves. Wherever he is, it’s on a seashore, and he longs to see the view. He asks and Roberta obliges. Today is the day he gets out of bed.

Two strong uniformed guards come in with Roberta. They undo his bonds and help him to his feet, holding him beneath his armpits.

“Don’t be afraid,” Roberta says. “I know you can do this.”

The first moment of standing gives him vertigo. He looks to his bare feet, seeing only toes sticking out from beneath the pale blue hospital gown he wears. Those toes seem miles beneath him. He begins to walk, one labored step at a time.

“Good,” says Roberta, walking along with him. “How does it feel?”

“Skydiving,” he says.

“Hmm,” says Roberta, considering this. “Do you mean dangerous or exhilarating?”

“Yes,” he answers. In his mind he repeats both words, remembering them, pulling them from a massive box of unsorted adjectives and filing them in their proper place. There are so many unsorted words in the box, but bit by bit, it’s all beginning to slide into coherent formation.

“It’s all in there,” Roberta has told him more than once. “It’s just a matter of finding it.”

The two guards continue to hold him beneath his armpits as he shuffles along. A knee buckles, and their grip grows tighter.

“Careful, sir.”

The guards always call him “sir.” It must mean that he commands respect, although he can’t imagine why. He envies their ability to simply “be” without having to work at it.

Roberta leads them down a hallway that, like the distance to his feet, seems like miles, but is only a dozen yards or so. Up above, in the corner of the ceiling, there’s a machine with a lens that zeroes in on him. There’s a machine like that in his room, too, constantly watching him in silence. Electric eye. Cyclops lens. He knows the name for the device. It’s on the tip of his tongue. “Say cheese!” he says. “It puts on ten pounds. Rolling . . . and . . . action! A Kodak moment.”

“The word you’re looking for starts with a c, and that’s all the help I’ll give you,” Roberta says.

“Cuh—cuh—Cadaver. Cabana. Cavalry. Canada.”

Roberta purses her lips. “You can do better.”

He sighs and gives up before frustration can overwhelm him. Right now, it’s hard to master walking, much less walking and thinking at the same time.

Now they come through a door to a place that is both inside and out.

“Balcony!” he says.

“Yes,” Roberta tells him. “That one came easy.”

Beyond the balcony is an endless sea, shimmering in the warm sun, and before him are two chairs and a small table. On the table are cookies and a white beverage in a crystal pitcher. He should know the name of that beverage.

“Comfort food,” Roberta tells him. “Your reward for making the journey.”