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to dial 1?”
    “No, just the area code and phone number.”
    I entered the numbers and got the same recording. “That’s odd.” I frowned. “I know for sure that’s the correct number. We must be doing something wrong.”
    “I have placed many calls to the United States and have had no trouble before,” Roberto said. “Is there someone else you can call?”
    Only one other number came to mind, a nearby restaurant where I frequently ordered takeout. Roberto entered the first string of numbers and allowed me to input the rest.
    “White Elephant,” answered a familiar voice. “How can I help you?”
    “Hi, Joey. It’s me, Lisa.”
    “Hey, Lisa. Long time no hear,” Joey said cheerfully. His strong Brooklyn accent made me feel almost homesick, though his words puzzled me. I didn’t think a day or two constituted a long time, even though I practically ate there every day. “Listen, Joey, I tried calling St. Vincent’s Hospital and got this no-longer-in-service recording. Did they change their number or something?”
    “What number did you call?” Joey asked. I could hear sounds of the small, busy restaurant in the background.
    I repeated the telephone number.
    “That’s the old number, honey.”
    “The old number?”
    “Yeah, before they moved to the new location on Twelfth and Seventh.”
    “The hospital moved?” I said, feeling as if the whole world instead of just the hospital had shifted.
    “Yeah, but they might as well not have. They went bankrupt shortly after you left and shut down, a couple of weeks ago, actually.”
    “I left?”
    “Yup, you quit and left New York.”
    I unconsciously gripped the phone tightly enough to make the plastic casing protest. Lightening my hold, I asked, “Do you know where I went?”
    Joey laughed. “What is this? You pulling my leg?”
    “No, I, um . . . I hit my head and have a concussion. I honestly don’t remember. I thought I still worked at St. Vincent’s.”
    There was silence at the other end for ten long seconds with nothing but the distant sound of customers and cooking drifting faintly over the line. When I heard Joey’s voice again, it sounded gruff and concerned. “Lisa, honey. You quit your job here almost six months ago. I haven’t seen or heard from you since then. Sorry, honey, I don’t know anything more than that.”
    After saying thanks, I numbly hung up, feeling dazed by more than just the blow to my head. “I think I asked the wrong question,” I said, looking up at Roberto. “What date is it?”
    When he told me, I felt a slight roaring in my head—a silent rush of feeling, of panic.
    I had lost more than half a year of memory!
    I had made a new life somewhere . . . and couldn’t remember a single moment of it!
    There are movies about people who lose their memory—total amnesia. It makes for a great story, with lots of drama and stuff. Having it happen to you, however, was not as much fun as watching it being enacted by talented actors. Granted, I only had partial amnesia. I knew who I was, knew my name—Lisa Hamilton—and where I used to live. I hadn’t lost myself completely. Just a significant chunk of time.
    I spent the next half hour trying to hunt up more clues of where I had moved to and what sort of new life I had built for myself. St. Vincent’s was completely shut down, as Joey had said, with no one in administration to talk to at all. What the landlord of my old apartment had to tell me was more helpful, and highly disturbing.
    There had been four men with me when I had moved out of my apartment and turned in my key.
    “Four men? Did they seem like friends?” I asked after my initial surprise.
    “Yeah, sure. Or why else would they help you move out of your apartment?”
    “Can you describe them?”
    “Why?” he asked, suspicious.
    “Because I hit my head and”—a weak laugh at having to say the next part—“I can’t remember them or where I moved to.”
    “No shit!” My old landlord sounded