"Yes. He has been informed. I will act as his advocate and as a witness for him."

The old man shifted in his seat as he addressed me. "Do you, Evan Michaels, wish to join our family and enter into the Cognomina?" His grey, heavy eyes looked as fathomless as time itself.

I felt every eye in the room on me. I knew what saying yes would mean to the life I'd known and to the life I saw around me in this room. "Yes," I said simply as I planted both feet firmly on this new world.

"Very well. Let us begin," he said, leaning back in his chair.

Poppy motioned for me to sit down. The young scribe’s hand began writing in sweeping strokes onto new blank pages.

The old man looked over and nodded at the Egyptian, who tilted his narrow African head back and looked down his long nose at me. The wooly hair on his head resembled the eraser of a thin pencil. "Let's start at the beginning, Mr. Michaels. How many lives do you remember?"

I looked over at Poppy for instruction.

"Answer him," she whispered.

I turned back to the panel and looked into the Egyptians sunken eyes. "Three, including this one." I heard Mr. Diltz's fingertips begin to move over the keyboard.

"When did the first one begin?"

"April 4th, 1892 outside the small village of Voditza in Bulgaria. It is, or was, about one hundred kilometers west of Varna."

"Good, very good," the Egyptian said. "The more detailed and exact you are in your responses the easier this process will be.

"What was your name in this first incarnation?"

"I was called Vasili Blagavich Arda."

"What were your father’s and mother’s names?"

"Blag Ivanovich Arda was my father and Liuda Poriskovna Arda was my mother."

"What were your brother’s and sister’s names?" asked the Egyptian as soon as I had answered.

"I had no brothers or sisters."

"When, where, and how did you die for the first time?"

I took a drink of water from the glass on the table. "It was in the fall of 1968. I was living in Istanbul. I don't know how I died or the exact date. I only remember that I collapsed on the floor of my room."

"What do you remember after that?"

"I remember being a little boy in Macon, Georgia."

"What was your name?"

"Bobby Lynn Murray."

"And you mother and father?"

"Judith Anne Murray. I never knew my father."

"When, where and how did you die the second time?"

"It was July the third, in our home in Macon. I died in an accident," I said hesitating."

"What manner of accident?"

"A fire," I said staring forcefully at him. He looked down at his notes before he continued.

"How can you be so sure about the date?"

"Because I went back to Macon three years ago to try to prove to myself that I wasn't mad."