“I noticed. Now, walk and talk.” He gestured toward the stone labyrinth, courteous but firm.

She approached it with clear trepidation. “How does it work?”

“Step on, start walking, say something,” Chance said. He tried to make his tone reassuringly everyday as he sat cross-legged on the grass with his chin propped on his fist and his elbow on his knee.

She sucked in a deep breath, trotted the last few steps to the edge of the labyrinth, and set her foot on the first of the red bricks. Nothing. She glanced at him, and he nodded her on. She brought her other foot forward, saying inanely, “My name is Mir—”

“My name is Dr. Miranda Ecouvo. I’d like to help you.”

Chance went with her. He knew his presence would trigger a telltale sense of déjà vu, impossible to avoid when the subject was not so much remembering as reliving an experience. He watched as it affected her; she closed her eyes for a moment and shook her head as if shaking away dizziness.

“No. No nononono more doctors.” The woman’s thin whisper was more a chant than a stammer, but it had a robotic sound to it that suggested, along with the repetitive, jerky rocking, that something in her mechanism was broken.

“I’m not that kind of doctor,” said Miranda.

“You’re shivering,” noted the woman spitefully.

“It’s colder than I’m used to,” Miranda replied calmly.

The woman unfolded suddenly from her crouch at the edge of the pool and slid into the water. She swam one quick length with smooth, confident grace while Miranda watched her carefully.

“You have to keep moving,” she called out as she reached the other end. Then, without warning, she went straight down, deep underwater. Miranda tugged her goggles over her eyes and slowly immersed herself, keeping a hand on the tiled edge, until she could see her client’s slow, acrobatic ballet. They came up for air at the same time.

“Why do you want to help me?” the woman demanded. She was strengthened by the water, her limbs under control once more as she lay back, fanning her hands like fluttering gills and glaring at Miranda. “This city hates foreigners. You should throw me out with the trash like you do all the rest.”

“You’re not . . . quite like the rest,” Miranda said between gasps. “You have something to say, something a jury might like to hear.” She clutched the side and pulled off her goggles to see the woman’s expression.

“You can’t swim,” the woman observed. “You’re afraid of the water.”

“Well, you’re comfortable in it,” Miranda noted.

The woman did a leisurely backstroke to Miranda’s side of the pool, ending up with her back to the tiles, her arms along the edge, one hand nearly touching Miranda. She didn’t meet Miranda’s eyes, and the old tremor echoed briefly in a convulsive twitch of her shoulders.