The man does not wear a name tag, nor does he ask if he can help me. I hesitate before speaking, wondering if he recognizes me. An awkward moment ensues as we look at one another expectantly, but the only thing in his eyes is polite forbearance. Finally, he says, “I’m sorry, our trial is closed.”

“I was just here a month ago. As a patient,” I say, fingertips resting on the edge of the desk. “I’m here for a copy of my medical records. Is there some form I need to fill out?”

The man doesn’t move. “We require twenty-four hours’ notice and a written request from your power of attorney,” he says, and though I appreciate the fact that he doesn’t just hand my records over, a small surge of alarm turns my stomach.

“I—I don’t know who that is.”

“It should have been in your packet.”

But the only items in the packet I received were my driver’s license, meds, and a stack of cash.

“It wasn’t. There isn’t . . . anyone.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you without it.”

“Look. I just drove a thousand miles to get here. This is an emergency.” I grab at the only thing that comes to mind, because it also happens to be true. “I’ve been experiencing blackouts. I lose time. I do things I don’t remember doing. My caretaker told me to contact the Center in case of any complications. So I’m here. Please help me.”

He glances away, and I think it’s toward the door behind him until I notice the camera in the corner. “The name of your referring physician?” he says, pulling a keyboard toward him.

“I don’t know. My procedure was . . . extensive.” I look around me, but I’m back in Maine, mental gaze scanning the coffee table, and then the pill bottle on top of it.

“Peterson. Dr. Julie Peterson.”

He types into the keyboard.

“I’m sorry. There’s no record with a referring physician of that name. Do you have ID?”

I dig in my pocket, find my driver’s license, and slide it across the desk. He glances at it and taps at the keyboard for far longer than it takes to enter my name and driver’s license number—or to type a small thesis.

When he finally looks up, he gestures to the screen in front of him. “I’m sorry, but there’s no record of you having been a patient at this clinic.”

What?

“It might not be under that name. It probably isn’t. I changed my name during my procedure.”

“And your former name?”

I glance up at the camera and lean forward on my elbow as though studying something on his desk with confusion, fingers curling over my mouth. “Audra Ellison.”

“Do you have ID under that name?”

“No. Only the new one. They should be linked.”