“Already the days seem to go more quickly for me than they do for Lucy, and your days must go much faster than either of ours because the brain’s biological clock, the suprachiasmatic nucleus in the hypothalamus”—she taps her forehead—“ages just like the rest of us. What changes isn’t time but our perception of it as the instruments inside our biological vessel are subject to stress, fatigue and wear and tear. They become less accurate like a precessing directional gyro or a wet compass out of calibration, and what you perceive isn’t accurate anymore.

“Already your memory-bumps should be moving you back in time like an assembly line. Already the past is being reconstructed and restored rapidly and miraculously as you relive what you see, and what a wonderful ride that will be. Consider it my gift to you. A bit of immortality, a spritz from the Fountain of Youth. But as I continue to emphasize by way of an apology I can’t say when.

“At this juncture in time and space I honestly can’t predict when I will decide the history of the world is perfectly poised and suited for you to be properly and at long last enlightened about the meaning of your life and death, and the beginnings and ends of all the people on earth who matter to you. Including me. Yes me. We’ve never had an opportunity to be friends. We’ve never had a substantive conversation. Not even a cordial one. And that’s shocking when one considers what you could learn from me. Let me fill you in on a few facts about Carrie Grethen.”

Another hidden camera picks her up as she walks across the room to an Army green canvas backpack on the floor. She crouches and digs inside it. She finds a manila envelope that isn’t sealed and slides out folded sheets of paper, more pages of a script.

“Did you know I’m a writer, a raconteur, an artiste? That I’m a devotee of Hemingway, Dostoyevsky, Salinger, Kerouac, Capote? Of course not. You wouldn’t want to humanize me. You wouldn’t want to assign anything positive or noteworthy—no pun intended—such as an appreciation for poetry and prose. Or that I have a very wicked sense of humor.

“I offer a brief character sketch that will give you a few clues, and you go right ahead and share them with whoever you like. Put them in one of your boring technical books. Now there’s an idea. Please excuse that I prefer the third person when I talk about myself. I don’t talk about me. I talk about her. Are you ready? Are you sure?”

Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

ONCE UPON A TIME THERE WAS AN ALCHEMIST WHO PREPARED HER OWN special protective potions that kept her forever young.”

Carrie holds up the bottle of lotion as she reads from her script.