This story is dedicated to Ilythia Major, who challenged me to write it. I was pretty low when she did so, and I think she was partly challenging me to do a specific kind of story, but also challenging me to Snap Out Of It! Which I did. Everyone should have friends like this.

If you're ever in Kansas City and get a chance to see the Linda Hall Library, do it. The Rare Book reading room is a particular treat; you need to make an appointment to go there, and bring your ID, and then you can look at an original of Audubon's "Birds of America," or one of many other marvelous original editions. This story's thumbnail is from Monstrorum historia by Ulisse Aldrovandi, published in 1642. I had to promise FedEx Office that no one would sue them for copyright infringement.

Thank you so much to library staffers Benjamin Gross, Vice President for Research and Scholarship, and Cindy Rogers, the Senior Research Specialist of Special Collections, who are both enthusiastic and helpful.

"Supernatural" is copyrighted by Warner Brothers Entertainment Inc.

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MONDAY

A light, buzzing annoyance on his forehead. Sun was nice on his head and he relaxed, but the buzz was back. Fly. He wrinkled his forehead, stirred.

Hardness. He was asleep on something hard. He opened his eyes and shifted, sitting up straighter. A bench. Why?

He looked around. Nothing was familiar. Nice, but unknown. Why was he sitting on a bench in some kind of urban park sound asleep?

Let's see, the reason he came here –

No idea.

Where was he before that? No idea.

Home, he must have come from a – No idea. Places he knew? People he knew?

He couldn't remember his own name.

He sat bolt upright on the bench, grabbing its arm hard, eyes wide, breathing fast.

Don't panic. There's an explanation. Maybe some leftover effect of the sleep, like sleep paralysis. Relax. It'll come to me.

Well, I know the phrase sleep paralysis. Grab that and follow it. If I think about the field of medicine, does anything occur to me? Psychology, do I remember anything about psychology studies?

Maybe I am a psychology study. I'm gonna complain about the ethics of it if I am.

No, they need the info. And I probably signed a release anyway.

He shook his head. Try to relax. Think. Sports? Construction? Head injury? Hospital stay? Why would he be here? What was he doing before he fell asleep? What was he doing a month ago? Ten years ago?

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. He was a creature entirely of the present. No background, no relationships. No context.

He was starting to panic again.

Don't. Panic gets you killed.

That came to him so surely that he knew it must have something to do with his biography.

Try to think. Who told me that panic gets you killed? What incident drove it home, so deeply and so thoroughly, that I remember it even when I can't remember my name?

The military, maybe? Post-traumatic stress, wiping out horrific memories by wiping out all memories?

Suddenly realizing that he'd missed the obvious, he searched his jeans pockets and the snapped pocket on his flannel shirt.

No phone, no wallet, no keys. His pockets were as empty as his memory.

Some kind of crime. They hit me over the head and robbed me. I need to get to a hospital. They can check me out, put my picture out in public. Someone might –

Don't. Do. That.

Again, it was immediate and resonant, reflexive. You don't call attention to yourself. You don't let them know who or where you are.

Who's "them"?

Walk into one of the large buildings surrounding the small park, tell someone his situation, ask them to call 911. This was the right thing. Intellectually. Make sure he didn't have some injury that would kill him within hours, let the hospital publicize him so that – someone could –

He could not do it. Intellect arguing with you one thing. Something so engraved on your mind that it's second nature screaming at you is something else.

I don't know. Anything. I'm vulnerable. Call attention to myself, I could get killed.

But it was the only sensible thing to do.

Starting to panic again. He deliberately relaxed his muscles. Looked around him for a threat. Controlled his breathing. Am I in danger now?

He shot to his feet and turned.

No one behind him. The ground sloped up to a hilltop, two brown brick buildings linked by a brown brick wall on the hilltop.

He turned, looking for the threat. There were trees in the park, enough for beauty but not so many that a threat could hide effectively.

There was a plaque on the bench:

In honor of

Dr. James and Francie Flynn

for their generous support of the

Linda Hall Library

So maybe those were the buildings at the top of the hill?

I've got to decide, get help or –

What do I do if I don't ask for help? Live like this always?

Panicking again.

Calm down. No one attacking now. Observe. Get data.

The bench was in the middle of the park and the middle of the hill. The ground sloped down in front of the bench as much as it sloped up behind him, giving him a great view of buildings nearby. At the border of the park, below him, a low stone wall separated the park from the street; on the other side of the street was a wide sidewalk. A man and woman were walking a dog down the sidewalk, talking to each other.

They knew who they were. God, he envied them.

Beyond the sidewalk there were two buildings, one with a sign out front that said "Swinney" and one a large white building he could see from the back. Over the top of that one, thanks to his elevation, he could see the building beyond the white building, a long two-story brown building with "UMKC" on it in bright white letters, and "KC Rep" in smaller letters, blue and white, beneath it.

KC, twice. He thought about it as he kept looking around. Kansas City?

If so, the UMKC would be University of Missouri at Kansas City. Of course there'd be a library on the grounds. KC Rep would be – he didn't know. But it made sense that he was in the Midwest. He could see no mountains on the horizon. The sun was warm but not searing, the surrounding trees were deciduous, varied shades of green that would turn and fall in – what? A few months?

Yes. It's mid-June. A Monday. What the hell, how do I remember that and not remember where I am or how I got here?

The grass was a little brownish in some areas, rich green in others: a little dry but not drought or desert. And my name is –

He'd thought he could trick his mind into revealing something while he thought about something else, but it just wasn't there. He knew what Midwestern America looked like, he knew the month, even the day.

He knew nothing about himself.

He didn't even know what he looked like.

He sank back down on the bench, breathing raggedly.

Revisit the idea of getting some help, putting my face out there so someone might recognize –

The back of his neck literally prickled at the thought. He looked behind him again. He had a great view from this bench, but man was he exposed.

He wondered again what he looked like. Looked at his arms. He knew damn well he was male, his skin said Caucasian.

I'm a white male in the Midwestern United States. Well, that narrows things down.

He chuckled, then felt pleased with himself. A sense of humor at a time of crisis. That was good.

Maybe he didn't need to publicize his own face. If other people were looking for him, maybe they'd already gone to the police –

God, I hope not.

Why? What is the problem with finding help in the most logical place?

Crap. Maybe he was a criminal.

Escapee who got a head injury in the course of an escape?

Well, this was ridiculous. He could sit here all day making up stories. He needed –

I need a computer with internet access.

It made him feel better instantly. Something specific he could do. And libraries have computers.

He stood again, turned, started up the hill. Only now did he notice that the trees had small metal signs at their bases, giving the common and scientific names for each tree he passed. He read each one, something to think about besides his situation.

The entrance to the main brick building was two white two-story-tall, square arches with "Linda Hall Library" in squared-off lettering above them. He pushed open the doors beneath the arches and then on the other side of the foyer. Ahead, in the middle of two rows of desks, there was an amazing seven-foot-tall malachite sculpture. A man was sitting just to the left of the door – dressed casually, but, by his position, probably security of some kind. He was about to ask the man whether there was a computer he could use when he heard a friendly female voice: "Well, welcome back!"

He spun, excited. Maybe she could tell him –

But you don't reveal vulnerability. You don't reveal what you don't know – for instance, whether you come in here all the time or whether she just knows you from an hour ago.

"Yeah, hey," he said with a smile. "Good to see you again."

"Did you find what you needed?" the librarian asked him. She had a sweet face and ready smile, dark hair striking next to a fair complexion.

But it was her question that thrilled him. A clue! "Yeah, something occurred to me – can I take another look, has it been re-shelved?"

"I'm sorry, everyone in the Rare Book room either had to leave or is off today."

"Oh." The Rare Book room?

"Can you come back tomorrow?"

He laughed in a way that probably sounded a little strange, but it was a great tension release. "I see no reason why not. In the meantime – "

She was studying his face, and when he broke off, she tapped her own forehead. "You have something – a little – "

He touched his own forehead. There was something stiff there, like paint that had dried. "Yeah, I fell asleep outside. Hope I didn't rub my face in anything disgusting."

She laughed. "It's just a spot."

"I'll go wash it off. Bathrooms?"

"Right over there."

"And then, is there a computer I could use?"

She gestured to an alcove practically right next to where they were standing. "Right in there."

"Great. Is it just for the library, or is there internet access?"

"Oh, there's internet access."

"Terrific. Well, I'm just gonna go clean my face."

He was eager to find out what he looked like.

His first hint was before he actually pulled even with the sinks. He could tell that the mirrors wouldn't reflect the very top of his head. He was tall.

He liked the face in the mirror. A little goofy, maybe, pointed nose and chin, wide mobile mouth, longish hair, but a nice face. Early to mid-thirties. His smile was guileless, but seemed somehow guarded. Even so –

"If I met you, I'd like you," he told his reflection. It made him feel better about the whole escaped-criminal theory.

The spot was in the exact middle of his forehead. Dark green, thicker than paint, not as thick as oatmeal. It looked like someone had daubed it on there with a couple of fingers.

He studied it for a moment – it cracked when he drew his eyebrows together in puzzlement – then shrugged and turned on the faucet, ready to wash it off.

Then he stopped. He wetted the tips of a couple of his fingers and dampened the smudge thoroughly without removing it. Then he took a paper towel and tried to scrape as much of it as he could onto the paper. As he did this, he could smell a faint herbal smell coming from it. That's why the fly had liked it.

When he'd got most of the smudge smeared into the middle of the paper towel, he folded the paper around it and put it in the snap pocket of his shirt, then washed off the rest.

A thought struck him. He unbuttoned the second button of his shirt – the top one was already undone – and sniffed inside his shirt. Just a trace of body odor. If he was living on the street, it sure hadn't been for long.

No, from the librarian's reaction to him, it seemed more likely that he'd come in to research something, left, fell asleep on a bench in the arboreal grounds of the library, and woke up like this.

It struck him to confide in the librarian, but he didn't want to put her in danger too. Whatever the hell the danger was.

He started to fasten his shirt button, then hesitated, looking in the mirror. A tattoo.

He ripped open the next couple of buttons and opened the shirt wide, examining it.

A dark, five-pointed star in a circle, a pentacle, surrounded by the curving pointed flames of an equally dark sun. No slogan. It didn't look military, and he couldn't think of any pop-cultural references. It looked occult.

A guy walked in and broke stride a bit, seeing his chest in the mirror.

"Do you know what this is?" he asked before he could stop himself.

The guy gave a little snorted laugh. "No, don't you?"

He started re-buttoning his shirt. "Last time I go drinking with that particular buddy."

"That's not so bad," the guy said, turning to a urinal and unzipping. "I know a guy who got Gene Simmons tattooed on his ass."

He laughed as he left. "OK, I feel better."

As he settled in front of a computer, he was pondering. "Last time I go drinking with that particular buddy" had just rolled out. He lied easily, and that was disconcerting. Now he was back to thinking he was a criminal – maybe a con man, and someone had taken violent exception to being conned.

But, again, if so, why wasn't he bruised? Bleeding? Where were any signs of head trauma? Judging by the length of his hair, if he'd had any kind of medical procedure on his head, it was at least a year ago.

If I lie easily, but I don't really like it that I lie easily, what does that make me? Willy Loman? Nah, Willy Loman didn't really have a problem with lying. He had a problem with facing the consequences of his own actions.

Great. I know all about "Death of a Salesman," but nothing about myself. Well, I know something. If the terms "sleep paralysis" and "Willy Loman" come to mind readily, I'm probably either an avid reader or well educated, maybe both.

He woke up the computer and got onto the internet.

Briefly, he researched the Linda Hall Library. Sure enough, right in the middle of the University of Missouri-Kansas City campus. It wasn't the university's library, though; it specialized in science, engineering, technology. Special Collections – which he assumed would include books in the Rare Book Room – included sets of publications from engineers' societies, as well as a History of Science collection.

None of it rang a bell, but at least now he had an idea of where he was. Now he began researching missing persons in Kansas City. In Missouri. In Kansas, which was about a 10-minute drive from the library. If he had a car.

No missing persons looked like him. He drew a breath and did a search on escaped or wanted criminals in the same areas. No one who looked like him. Thank God.

"Hi, can I help you?"

The librarian's tone was still sweet but brisk, and he looked around to see her addressing a young man whose uncombed hair, square black-framed glasses, and short-sleeved shirt screamed "nerd."

"Oh, um, yeah, I wanted to look up some stuff here and then go to the stacks."

"Can I see your library card?"

"Oh, um – yeah, sorry – " The guy was fumbling in various pockets as the librarian led him to the main desk.

He smiled. Future absent-minded professor.

Then it struck him: This was going to be his only chance to use these computers. The librarian let him sit down here because she'd recognized him from earlier that day – when, apparently, he had a library card. But if he came back tomorrow she'd probably need to see it again, or someone would, and he didn't have it. If he said he'd lost it, they'd need identification to issue him a new one. And he didn't have that either.

He was starting to panic again.

He closed his eyes and forced calm on himself. If this was his only shot at this computer, he needed to make the most of it. From his research, he knew that the library would close in an hour.

He spent the time researching amnesia, beginning with the Mayo Clinic website, which he knew was a sound site for medical information. Another of those bits of knowledge he'd have traded in a heartbeat for any clue to his own identity.

What he had, the loss of personal memories, was called retrograde amnesia. It was rare, and usually caused by head trauma. No matter where he looked, he couldn't find any hopeful notes about some way to stimulate the return of memory.

A hunger pang made him think he'd like to get a snack, and he suddenly realized: I can't.

Actually, the lack of money panicked him less than the amnesia. The lack of an identity made him feel not quite human; the lack of money was just a matter of logistics.

How can you get food? You grow it – not exactly feasible. You pick it wild – this was an urban area, there weren't going to be any wild blueberry patches around. You buy it with cash, if you have that, which he didn't. You buy it on credit, if you have a card, which he didn't. You borrow it, if you know someone who trusts that you'll repay him, which he didn't. You go to a charity. You beg for money. You steal money. Or you just steal the food.

Of those, he was a little repelled to find that he minded stealing food least. Both going to a soup kitchen and begging on a street corner – well, there was the pride issue, of course, but it wasn't even really the main issue. Both of them involved public acknowledgment of vulnerability that would put him in danger, like calling the police or going to a hospital.

At some point he was going to try really hard to focus on this sense of danger. If he could get even a clue as to what he felt threatened by, that would tell him something about himself.

In the meantime, though, he had to take some fast steps. He asked the librarian for some paper and a pen – "I left everything in the car" – and she obliged with several sheets and a ballpoint pen with the library's logo on it.

He was startlingly gratified. They felt like treasures, the first acquisitions of a new life.

He researched "homeless shelters," "soup kitchens," "grocery store," and "convenience store" near UMKC. The food pantries all required ID; the soup kitchens were in a completely different part of town, and would have stopped serving by the time he walked there.

So. Theft it was, then.

The library was closing. He dredged up a smile for the librarian and waved to her as he left.

He'd jotted down directions to the nearest grocery store in small writing – he wanted to conserve his paper – but he pretty well had it memorized, so he focused on the surrounding area as he walked. He figured it would be about a three-mile walk, which made him think to look at his shoes.

They were boots, actually, durable, with thick soles. They'd seen some hard wear, creased and scuffed, the tread on the soles worn and a sharp nick in the edge of one heel, but they'd last a good long time.

Not that he was going to be like this for a good long time. While he was walking and had nothing else to do but think, he set a deadline. It was a little after 5:00 on Monday. If Thursday night came around and he still had no idea who he was or where he belonged, he'd walk on over to St. Luke's Hospital nearby and turn himself in.

For a couple of blocks he'd been passing a large beautiful park on his left, and he now noticed a drinking fountain there. He walked down a steep slope from the street, took a drink, and suddenly realized how thirsty he was. He glugged water, literally thanking God for that fountain.

He made his way back up the slope to the street and walked the few blocks to the grocery store.

He'd been pondering a plan as he walked, and when he walked in the door he saw what he considered to be his third good break (computer access at the library and the water fountain being his first two): The clerks were all wearing loose-fitting bright red vests.

He picked up a grocery basket. Stopping quickly at an unmanned checkstand, he grabbed a grocery bag and put it in the basket. Then he headed down an aisle toward the back of the store. When he saw a pair of swinging doors labeled "Employees Only," he went in as though he had every right to do it.

Just as he went in, a guy in a butcher's cap and apron walked out, but he was walking quickly and looked intent on something, didn't even seem to see him.

It was a hallway with gray cinder-block walls and a cement floor. He could hear voices echoing from another corridor to his left. To his right was a deep sink with soap and paper towels, emergency eye wash and a first-aid kit mounted on the wall next to them.

He passed that and continued a few yards. To his right, the wall suddenly opened up with a window and door into a lighted office. The office was empty, and a red vest hung over the back of a chair behind the desk.

He took in and let out a breath, walked calmly into the office, picked up the vest, and walked calmly back out.

Once he'd put it on and grabbed his shopping basket again, he went straight to the aisle where trail mix was sold. He looked over the racks, bringing forward bags that were pushed back on the rods, straightening bags and boxes on shelves. The idea was to look commonplace, hopefully boring, to anyone looking at a security camera, so that when he picked up one bag of trail mix, glanced at the bottom of the bag, and tossed it into the basket, it would just look like he'd found a ripped or outdated bag.

He did the same thing with beef jerky and a bottle of flavored water. In the produce section he re-stocked an empty rack of plastic bags (using half of a full rack elsewhere in the section), looked at a couple of apples like they had bad spots on them, and tossed them into the basket.

He walked back to the restroom and locked the door. He took off the vest and folded it in the bottom of the plastic bag. He put the other items on top of it in the bag. It was a tight squeeze, but he was able to pull the handles together at the top.

He took the opportunity to go to the bathroom and wash his hands and face. He should've stolen some hygiene items while he was at it, but he wanted to keep himself to one bag and he'd rather have the food. He pulled some paper towels out of the dispenser, ran water on half of them, folded the dry paper towels and put them in one of his pockets, and squished the wet ones down into the bag.

He opened his shirt and looked at the tattoo again. He was going to keep asking about that, either on a computer or in a tattoo place. It was the best clue he had to his identity.

Unless –

"If this works, I'm gonna feel like a moron," he mumbled, pulling off his shirt.

He looked on the labels and in the neckband to see if there was a name written there. There wasn't, so he didn't have to feel like a moron.

As he was putting his shirt back on he paused, then drew closer to the mirror. There was a long white scar on the right side of his ribcage, just above the gut, crossed by another scar.

He pulled closer to the mirror, and only then noticed the long faint scar along his collarbone. He looked at his arms. Scars on both of them, and on one of them was a nasty burn scar, looked like someone had hit him with a hot poker. On his left arm was a pretty thick scar with faint dots of scarring on both sides; it looked like the wound had been sewn up by someone without adequate training or equipment. He turned, looking over his shoulder at his back, and sucked in a breath.

There was a thick two-inch-long scar right over his spinal cord in his lower back.

"How are you still walking?" he whispered. "How are you still alive?"

He put his shirt back on slowly, looking at his image.

"Tough life for sure," he said to his image, who said it back. "What the hell went on with you?"

It struck him that he ought to have a name. Names were important to people. He didn't know how he knew that – probably read it somewhere in some psych textbook or something.

Between the episodes of hand-to-hand combat.

He gave a friendly smile to his image. "Hi, what's your name?"

He looked for a moment at the smiling guy in the mirror.

"Jim. You look like a Jim to me," he said.

The image seemed to agree with that, so Jim nodded his head, picked up the shopping basket, and headed to the front of the store.

There was a closed checkout stand next to a busy open one. Jim put the shopping basket on the floor and flipped through a National Enquirer for a few moments.

Then he put the magazine back on the rack, pulled the stuffed-full plastic bag out of the shopping basket, and joined a couple of other people who were leaving the busy checkout stand, walking out the door with them.

He almost held his breath walking across the parking lot, but when he reached the sidewalk he relaxed, physically if not emotionally.

Well, if I wasn't a criminal before, I am now.

On the other hand, it heartened him a little that he felt bad about it.

He went back to the big park he'd passed along the way and sat on a bench. The polyester vest, when folded inside the bag, gave him at least something of a surface to write on. He put one of his sheets of paper on that surface and wrote as he drank flavored water and ate some trail mix, some of his beef jerky, and half an apple.

Find a public library: Research missing persons again; research AWOL soldiers; research tattoo; research soup kitchens again (ask churches)

Hygiene products

A way to get money without stealing

ID

He thought for a moment more, then wrote:

DEADLINE: Thursday, 5:00 p.m.

He would have loved to eat more, but he wanted to conserve the food. He finished off the water, refilled the bottle at the drinking fountain, and began walking to explore his surroundings, keeping an eye out for any opportunity.

On maps he'd seen back at the library, he knew that the area on the other side of the park was called the Country Club Plaza. It was an upscale shopping district with beautiful, European-looking architecture ringed by modern multi-story office buildings and apartments. There was a fountain, large or small, every couple of blocks; this began with a huge fountain with four big statues of horsemen. Someone tossed a coin into it as he passed, and he moved closer to it. There weren't a lot of coins in the fountain, but a few. Too many people around to take coins out – the fountain itself was obviously an attraction, and rightly so – but he kept an eye out, rolling his sleeves to the elbows. He was able, a couple of times, to dip a few coins out of fountains set in niches of the older buildings.

He asked a few people passing by where there was a public library. The first three had no idea, two of them saying apologetically, "I'm from out of town." But then he ran across a couple so young they looked like they were just out of college, and they told him that there was a Plaza Library. It was back east, the way he'd come, and a few blocks south. The guy even looked it up on his phone, and told Jim that the library closed at 6:00.

Thanks to church bells that had chimed awhile ago, Jim knew that it was after six. So that gave him something to do tomorrow, after he'd figured out how to eat without stealing.

For now, he'd take advantage of the long June day to keep wandering around, looking for clues and opportunities and just getting a feel for the area. An older man did a key-for-stub exchange with a parking valet in front of a nice-looking restaurant. Young women window-shopped for outfits whose prices were inversely proportional to the amount of fabric used. Colorful banners celebrating summer and the Kansas City Royals hung from lampposts.

And there was a Barnes & Noble. He stared through its windows as longingly as the young women gazing at overpriced dresses.

Yeah, I'm a reader, all right.

After a few minutes of staring into the windows, he dug the supermarket vest out of his grocery bag, put it on, and went in. A few minutes later he emerged with a Scientific American occupying the space in the bag where the vest had been.

It's not just for reading. You roll it up and put some muscle behind it, a magazine can be a weapon.

And who the hell thinks like that, exactly?

Well, someone with scars all over him.

He had some time yet before the sun set, but he was aware that he was going to have to find a safe place to spend the night. Safe from what? He wished he knew.

He thought about it as he walked west along the Plaza's main street and suddenly realized that, without conscious thought, he was returning to the Linda Hall Library.

He wasn't sure why. He had a feeling about libraries – again, with no specific memories to back it up – that they were safe, or at least welcoming.

Actually, there was a practical reason too. He'd read, during his research on amnesia, that often amnesiacs have a hard time retaining new memories, so it's difficult for them to learn new things. It had given him a moment's fear.

But, he figured, if he could leave Linda Hall and wander a couple of miles away in a random pattern, but then find his way back again – and better yet, find his way from the library to the grocery store or the Plaza again tomorrow – he'd feel better about his ability to learn. The magazine would help with that too.

As he ambled, he decided to think about a last name. "Pleased to meet you, I'm Jim – " It ought to be something related to his circumstances.

No, not Jim Amnesiac.

He sat in the big park and finished his half-apple while reading the magazine. There was an article in there about 2019 being the International Year of the Periodic Table, and he decided to memorize some of the elements in order of atomic number. He already knew that hydrogen was 1 – of course he did, because the information was completely useless in the current predicament – but he memorized the next 14 and then stood to walk back to the library. He'd repeat it a few times between now and going to sleep, and if he could remember them tomorrow morning, he'd stop worrying about whether he could learn and retain new things.

He pulled out his notes and wrote, "What are the first 15 elements in the periodic table?" Just in case he didn't remember to ask himself that.

The sun was low by the time he resumed walking, but he still had time to get to the library before dark. He was lucky that this had happened in June, and he didn't have to worry about freezing to death on top of everything else.

You know. As lucky as totally losing your memory is, while having a sense of looming threat that you can't remember.

He decided to take a road parallel to the one he'd taken before, and actually passed right by the Plaza Library. OK, something else he could test himself on. He wrote on his notes, "I walked by the Plaza Library. Where is it?"

He was tired by now, and he thought about spending the night here, but this library was surrounded by concrete – a wide drive, restaurants, a parking garage, so he decided to press on.

He went back to thinking about a surname. He was looking for his identity. Well, actually, right now he was looking for a full day's worth of meals, but eventually he was seeking his identity. Jim Seeker? Jim Searcher?

Jim Prober? No.

Jim Hunter?

Not bad. Sounds like a real name. Be pretty funny if it turns out that it is my real name.

He had to stop at an intersection of two big boulevards, and a car slowed beside him before making a left turn. The windows were open, and he could see the driver and passenger, who looked like a father and a son about 10 or 12. The kid was bellowing along cheerily to some popular song on the radio, and he could hear the father laugh as the car turned the corner.

All of his determined optimism deserted him. He stood watching cars go past and had to fight tears.

Do I have a dad? Is he looking for me? A wife? A son of my own? Why is this happening?

The light changed, and he thought for a moment of just sitting down on the sidewalk, giving up. Letting someone else take over when he got to be too much of an annoyance to pedestrians.

Instead, he put one foot in front of the other and kept moving. He deliberately turned his attention outward, observing as much of the large elegant office buildings and the big park as he could, reciting the first 15 elements of the periodic table, anything to keep himself from thinking about himself.

By the time he reached the low stone wall at the foot of the Linda Hall Library's park on a hill, he was very tired. That was good. He wouldn't have to struggle too much to get to sleep.

He hopped over the wall. There were four bushes planted in an arc with a stone bench in the middle. He sat down on the bench, took off his shoes and socks, and looked at his feet and lower legs. A couple of more scars on the legs, but none on his feet. Obviously he wore heavy-duty shoes like this a lot.

He stuffed his feet back into his shoes. Then he rolled the magazine tightly and tied it firmly with his socks, for a weapon. He wrapped the plastic bag around his food and the water bottle, then left that on top of the bench, where hopefully it wouldn't attract the attention of insects as much as it would on the ground.

He sat on the ground with the bushes at his back and the bench in front of him. It was by no means a fortress, but hopefully would hide him a little from the police. Or whoever the threat was.

He took off the vest, folded it and put it on the ground for a pillow. Hoping to keep his shirt looking decent, he put it on inside out before he lay down.

Really, he might as well have curled up on concrete. He was hungry, and very aware of the limits of the weapon he was clutching.

And then it occurred to him: This won't be forever.

If nothing else, on Thursday night I go to a hospital and face whatever consequences come from that, jail or assassins or whatever the hell. But I think there's a good chance that I figure it out by then. I'm smart, and I'm persistent. I don't know who I am, but I know that much.

It didn't make him less hungry or make the ground any softer, but it did let him get to sleep.