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difference is, Jason, that this reincarnation thing is going to come to nothing. You can spend a lifetime on it—six lifetimes, if you like—and in the end you’ll be exactly what you are right now, a voice crying in the wilderness, with no one listening and no one caring. You’re trying to prove something that’s no more susceptible of proof than ghosts or second sight or life after death. When you’re all finished, it’ll be just the way it is now: The believers will believe and the unbelievers won’t, and your work won’t have made a particle of difference.”
    “Whereas yours does.”
    “Walk with me a week, Jason, and you’ll
know
it does.”
    His earnestness made it impossible for me to be indignant. He wasn’t trying to insult me or to hurt my feelings.
    “What would you like me to say?” I asked him.
    “That you’ll give some serious thought to what I’m telling you.”
    “All right, I’ll do that.”
    He confessed he couldn’t ask for more than that.
    • • •
    The next morning I located some of my mother’s stationery and went to work on a letter.
    Dear Mallory (if I may):
    My name will mean nothing to you. I suspect that all the names of the people who are haunting your life at the moment mean nothing to you. But although you don’t know me (and I don’t know you), I’m going to make three important guesses about you.
    First: Y OU’RE NOT M ALLORY H ASTINGS AT ALL . You may or may not know who you really are, but you definitely know you’re not Mallory Hastings, no matter what the people around you are saying.
    Second: Y OU DON’T KNOW HOW YOU GOT WHERE YOU ARE . The last thing you remember is that you were someone else and somewhere else.
    Third: Y OU’RE AFRAID TO SPEAK THE TRUTH TO THE PEOPLE AROUND YOU . You don’t know what would happen if you told them that you’re not Mallory Hastings and that your last memory is of being someone else, somewhere else.
    So now, Mallory (as I’ll have to call you till I know your real name), please tell me how I’ve done with my guesses.
    The phone listed at the bottom of this stationery is answered twenty-four hours a day. I’m sure the people at the hospital will let you make a long-distance call if you ask them. Or you can write to me at the address below. That’ll take a little longer, but do whatever is comfortable for you.
    I hope you’ll believe me when I say I understand what you’re going through and only want to help. And I can help, I’m sure of that.
    Sincerely,       
Jason Tull, Jr.
    At this point, I’d learned none of the specifics of Mallory’s situation, but I knew from experience that my “guesses” were virtual certainties. It’s axiomatic in paranormal research that the honest run into a wall of disbelief while deliberate hoaxers win ready acceptance.

Dear Mr. Tull,
    Thanks for your letter, and I really mean that. To this drowning woman, it was a lifeline. It gave me the incentive I needed to work with the speech therapists here—or I should say it gave me a reason to work with them. When I received your letter, I desperately wanted to call you, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to make myself understood over the phone. I was afraid you’d think I was an idiot and give up on me, so I really went to work and will be much improved by the time this reaches you.
    You scored three out of three right on your guesses. Because I’m afraid of the people here (and especially the woman who insists she’s my mother), I didn’t show your letter to anyone. But I wanted to find out why you wrote to me, so I asked one of the nurses if she’d ever heard of you.She said, oh sure, but the man she was thinking of was your father. She didn’t know anything about Jason Tull, Jr.
    So these are the questions on my mind right now. How were you able to make your three guesses? You say you want to help me, but how? Did someone put a spell on me that you can undo? I hope you don’t mind my asking. Anyway, the real question is,