One step inside the door, and the smell seized me by the throat, making my legs go weak and my head begin to whirl. If coming to San Francisco had filled me with dread, this building was the very centre of that horror, and the smell of cleaning fluid and illness made the memory of those weeks rise up in the back of my mouth. Physical pain and raw abandonment and an excoriating sense of guilt slammed into me, fresh as the week I first woke here. I would have turned on my shaky legs and bolted for the door had a nurse not noticed my distress, and come to take my elbow.

“Miss,” she repeated, “come sit down, you're about to faint.”

Obediently, I took the chair she dragged me towards, and felt her cool hand pushing gently but firmly against the bare nape of my neck, forcing my head down. I took a breath, then a few more; the dizziness passed somewhat, and I sat upright.

“Goodness,” I said with an embarrassed laugh. “I hadn't expected that.”

“Not to worry, it's always the strong ones that get the feet knocked out from under them by hospitals,” she replied cheerfully. “Had an Irish longshoreman in here this morning, one look at the needle and—phht—out cold. Were you looking for someone?”

“Actually, it's the business office. I'm trying to track down a doctor who worked here ten years ago.”

“I couldn't help you there, I've only been here three, but I can get you to the office.”

Several turns and a stairway later, the more distressing odours and sounds faded, and the office itself could almost have been anywhere. Almost. I thanked my guide, and went through the door.

Two more recitations of the details of my quest were required before I was set before an authority in a suit and tie instead of dress and stockings. I gratefully sank into the indicated chair, pulled off my gloves as an indication of my intention to see this enquiry through, and gave a third, somewhat more detailed version of the story.

At the end of it the man in the suit sat back and laced his hands together over his waistcoat.

“You were a patient here?”

“After the accident, yes, in October and November 1914. After November, I moved to a convalescent home, and saw her in her private office until I went home to England.”

“And you saw Dr Ginzberg during that whole time?” I detected a note of apprehension in his voice, at his awareness that he was seated across from a former mental patient, and I tried to look reassuringly sane. However, this did at least indicate that he was familiar with Dr Ginzberg's practice; I gritted my teeth behind my friendly smile, and prepared to grovel.