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ever learned, including how to read and write. But you don’t have global amnesia, and that’s something to be thankful for. Anyway, given time, you’ll remember all of it. I’m sure of that.”
    Susan hoped he was correct. Her carefully structured, orderly life was in temporary disarray, and she found her condition to be enormously distressing. If that disarray were to become a permanent feature of her existence, she would find life almost unbearable. She had always been in control of her life; she needed to be in control.
    McGee took his hands out of his pockets and looked at his watch. “I’ve got to be going. I’ll stop by again for a couple of minutes before I go home for the day. Meanwhile, you relax, eat more of your lunch if you can, and don’t worry. You’ll remember all about Milestone when the time is right.”
    Suddenly, as she listened to McGee, Susan sensed—without understanding why or how she sensed it—that she would be better off if she never remembered anything about Milestone. She was seized by an arctic-cold, iron-hard fear for which she could find no explanation.
     
 
She slept for two hours. She didn’t dream this time—or if she did dream, she didn’t remember it.
    When she woke, she was slightly clammy. Her hair was tangled; she combed it, wincing as she pulled out the knots.
    Susan was just putting the comb back on the nightstand when Mrs. Baker entered the room, pushing a wheelchair ahead of her. “It’s time for you to do a bit of traveling, kid.”
    “Where are we going?”
    “Oh, we’ll explore the hallways and byways of the exotic second floor of mysterious, romantic, colorful Willawauk County Hospital,” Mrs. Baker said. “The trip of a lifetime. It’ll be loads of fun. Besides, the doctor wants you to start getting some exercise.”
    “It’s not going to be much exercise if I’m sitting in a wheelchair.”
    “You’ll be surprised. Just sitting up, holding on, and gawking at the other patients will be enough to tire you out. You’re not exactly in the same physical condition as an Olympic track and field star, you know.”
    “But I’m sure I can walk,” Susan said. “I might need a little assistance, but if I could just lean on your arm at first, then I’m positive I could—”
    “Tomorrow, you can try walking a few steps,” Mrs. Baker said as she put down the side rail on the bed. “But today you’re going to ride, and I’m going to play chauffeur.”
    Susan frowned. “I hate being an invalid.”
    “Oh, for heaven’s sake, you’re not an invalid. You’re just temporarily incapacitated.”
    “I hate that, too.”
    Mrs. Baker positioned the wheelchair beside the bed. “First, I want you to sit up on the edge of the bed and swing your legs back and forth for a minute or two.”
    “Why?”
    “It flexes the muscles.”
    Sitting up, without the bed raised to support her back, Susan felt woozy and weak. She clutched the edge of the mattress because she thought she was going to tumble off the bed.
    “Are you all right?” Mrs. Baker asked.
    “Perfect,” Susan lied, and forced a smile.
    “Swing your legs, kid.”
    Susan moved her legs back and forth from the knees down. They felt as if they were made of lead.
    Finally, Mrs. Baker said, “Okay. That’s enough.”
    Susan was dismayed to find that she was already perspiring. She was shaky, too.
    Nevertheless, she said, “I know I can walk.”
    “Tomorrow,” Mrs. Baker said.
    “Really, I feel fine.”
    Mrs. Baker went to the closet and got the robe that matched Susan’s blue pajamas. While Susan put on the robe, the nurse located a pair of slippers in one of the suitcases and put them on Susan’s dangling feet.
    “Okay, honey. Now, just slide off the bed nice and easy, lean your weight against me, and I’ll help lower you into the chair.”
    As she came off the bed, Susan intended to disobey the nurse, intended to stand up straight all by herself and prove that she wasn’t an invalid. However,