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in the gaudily tiled bathroom, its tiny soaps and miniature bottles of shampoo and bath oil. She picked up two that had been used and sniffed, hoping a fragrance would ambush her memory.
    What she saved for last was the item that might give out the most information: a backpack that was probably hers, since it had an embroidery of flowers in one corner. Initials on the flap: A.O. She shut her eyes and ran A -names through her mind, thinking it would snag on one of them as the right one: Alice, Ann, Angela, Amy, Alison. Nothing registered. The O of course was hopeless; there were too many possibilities for a last name.
    What was inside the backpack was reassuring: jeans, a couple of white T-shirts, socks, panties, bra. Some toiletries: sunscreen, lipstick, shampoo, Band-Aids. A pair of sandals. Her feet were bare; she must have had other shoes. She poked under the bed and found the sneakers.
    Anita, Annette, Alexis, Abigail. Her legs drawn up, she rested her chin on her knees and tried not to cry. If she was a “guest” there would have to be a “host.” She would have to go in search of him or her.
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    â€œGood morning! Did you get enough sleep? Are you hungry? You must be if you didn’t even eat dinner last night. Your daddy had to go into town on business and said he’d be back in a couple of hours, and I was to see that you ate something.”
    There was so much information to process from this morning greeting that she had played for time by rubbing at her forehead. Daddy? She doubted that. A couple of hours? From when? “Sorry. I have kind of a headache.” They were standing outside of the kitchen and the owner-cook was wearing one of those mitts for taking pans out of the oven. She was plump and probably in her forties, and rather pretty.
    â€œWould you like some aspirin, dear? Oh, I’m Mrs. Orr, Patsy Orr. My husband and I own the place. This is our first real season.”
    She smiled. It was good that this woman was both motherly and the sort who talked a lot. Yes, Mrs. Orr had not spoken her name, but why would any name given this woman when she and “Daddy” had arrived be authentic anyway? “Thanks.” She followed Patsy Orr into the kitchen. The breakfast smells were tantalizing. And it was true that she was hungry. Famished was a better word. Patsy Orr handed her a glass of juice and two aspirins, which she downed gratefully, wondering where the guest book was. There must be a registration book of some kind.
    She drank the orange juice slowly, eyes closed, thinking hard. How much was left of that “couple of hours” before he’d be back? Whoever “Daddy” was, he would have told this pleasant lady a pack of lies, possibly interwoven with a few innocent truths, but hard to separate one from the other. That delicious smell was coming from the oven when Mrs. Orr opened the oven door and peered in. . . .
    â€œWhat time did he leave? Uh, my dad, I mean.” It astonished her that she could say it so easily, could dissemble so well. How was she so sure that, whoever this man was, he wasn’t her father? It was simple: had he been, she doubted she would have amnesia. Had he been, she would have woken in a hospital bed.
    â€œOh, not long ago. Nine-thirty, about.”
    Andi looked at her watch, glad she had one. “It’s after ten now . . . and he said two hours?”
    Patsy Orr had pulled out a pan of corn bread and was testing its doneness by pressing in the center with her finger. “That’s right. Had appointments, he said, at ten and eleven. This is done now. It’s blue-corn bread and I have my special recipe. My guests do seem to like my breakfasts; well, I say if you’re running a B-and-B that’s the least you can do, isn’t it? Wouldn’t you like some? And I’ve still got some of the frijatas and the huevos rancheros, if you’d