“Sylvie?”

A tall man, sideburns dusted gray, in a tan raincoat and plaid beret, umbrella tucked neatly beneath his arm, strides over. I stand. “That’s me.”

“I’m Dr. Johnson.”

He reminds me of the narrow spine of an old, leather-bound book, its edges comfortably worn. I don’t recognize him. We shake hands and settle on the bench. Thomas joins us and I make the introductions while Dr. Johnson scratches Moose’s chest.

“Okay, first things first. Since we’re going to talk about a past patient, that’s you, and the information is privileged, protected, I need to see some identification.” Dr. Johnson slides on round glasses with thick lenses.

I pull out my driver’s license and he scrutinizes the plastic square before handing it back. “Do you, um, have my file?” I ask.

“I read through it.” He taps his head. “Now it’s in here.”

Thomas cocks a brow. “Photographic memory?”

“Much like your friend,” Dr. Johnson says with a head tilt at me. “Though mine has faded a bit.”

“How do you know about my memory?”

“You and I played many games. You were a whiz at Go Fish! At first I thought you just had an elastic mind. But I decided to test it by showing you detailed photographs. For example, I showed you a tall building, took away the photo after ten seconds, then asked you how many windows it had, doors, awnings, et cetera. You’d close your eyes and it was clear you were seeing an image, counting. Then you’d write down the number of each item. Perfect every time. Do you still have an eidetic memory?”

“I do,” I say, “but it starts at age six. That’s not normal for someone like me, is it?”

Dr. Johnson’s index finger traces the long slope of his nose. “No, but I’m not surprised. Clearly there was some sort of disturbing trauma in early childhood. You didn’t speak when you came to my office and your caseworker, Heidi, said you arrived in foster care that way after a hospitalization. You have absolutely no recollection about what happened, or your time in the hospital?”

“I don’t.” It’s not a total lie. After visiting Eve, it’s clear that I was in a children’s psychiatric ward, but I don’t remember it, or know the reason.

Thomas asks, “What did you focus on during Sylvie’s sessions?”

“At first, getting her to speak.”

“How’d you do that?” I ask.

“I would like to say it was my incredible skill as a therapist,” he chuckles. “But in actuality, it was a fluke. In my practice I see many different children and have a vast library, some books chosen for their stories and messages, others for characters that might interest a specific client. One never knows how a breakthrough will occur.” Dr. Johnson slides off his beret. He scratches closely shorn gray hair then replaces the hat. “One day I asked you to choose a book from my shelves. You wandered along the rows and touched the spines but didn’t pull one out. I thought that you weren’t interested but suddenly you ripped a book free and read the first line aloud.”