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woman hesitates. Then gracefully rises from her seat and comes to him, to slip her hand into his, with a smile.
    â€œHello, Mr. Hoopes—‘Eli.’ I am Margot Sharpe—whom you have never met before today.”
    ACROSS THE GIRL’S white face beneath the rippling water are shadows of dragonflies and “skaters.” It is strange to see, the shadows of the insects are larger than the living insects.
    He has discovered her, in the stream. No one else knows—he is alone in this place.
    But he doesn’t look, he has not (yet) seen the drowned girl. He was not there, so he cannot see. He cannot remember what he has not seen.
    On the plank bridge in this strange place so many years later he does not turn his head. He does not glance around. He grips the railing tight in both his hands, bravely he steels himself against the anticipated wind.

CHAPTER TWO
    M r. Hoopes? Eli?”
    â€œHel-lo!”
    â€œMy name is Margot Sharpe. I’m Professor Ferris’s associate. We’ve met before. We’ve come to take up a little of your time this morning . . .”
    â€œYes! Wel-come.”
    Light coming up in his eyes. That leap of hope in his eyes.
    â€œWel-come, Margot!”
    Her hand gripped in his, a clasp of recognition.
    He does remember me. Not consciously—but he remembers.
    She can’t write about this, yet. She has no scientific proof, yet.
    The amnesiac will discover ways of “remembering.” It is a non-declarative memory, it bypasses the conscious mind altogether.
    For there is emotional memory, as there is declarative memory.
    There is a memory deep-embedded in the body—a memory generated by passion.
    Suffused with happiness, Margot Sharpe feels like a balloon rapidly, giddily filling with helium.
    â€œMR. HOOPES? ELI?”
    â€œHel-lo! Hel- lo. ”
    He has not ever seen her before. Eagerly he smiles at her, leans close to her, to shake her hand.
    In his large, strong hand, Margot Sharpe’s small hand.
    â€œYou may not recall, we’ve met before—‘Margot Sharpe.’ I’m one of Professor Ferris’s research associates. We’ve been working together for—well, some time.”
    â€œâ€˜Mar-got Sharpe.’ Yes. We’ve been working together for—some time.” E.H. smiles gallantly as if he knows very well how long they’ve been working together, but it is a secret between them.
    Today E.H. has the larger of his sketchbooks with him. He has finished the New York Times crossword puzzle—the newspaper page is discarded as usual, on the floor.
    E.H. has been sketching with a stick of charcoal, seated beside a window in the anterior of the fourth-floor testing-room. He appears to be oblivious of the plate glass window that is dramatically lashed with rain, as he is oblivious of his clinical surroundings; the objects of E.H.’s art, which excite his fierce attention, are almost exclusively interior, and he does not care to share them with others.
    (Except sometimes, Margot Sharpe.)
    (Though Margot knows not to ask E.H. to see his drawings but to wait for E.H. to offer to show her. The offer, if it comes, will come spontaneously.)
    â€œDo you have any idea how long we’ve been working together, Eli?”—Margot always asks.
    E.H.’s smile wavers. He speaks thoughtfully, gravely.
    â€œWell—I think—maybe—six weeks.”
    â€œSix weeks?”
    â€œMaybe more, or maybe less. You know, I have some problem with what is called ‘memory.’”
    â€œHow long have you had this problem, Eli?”
    â€œHow long have I had this problem? Well—I think—maybe—six weeks.” E.H. smiles at Margot, with a pleading expression. He is still gripping Margot’s hand; gently, she has to detach it.
    â€œDo you know what has caused this problem, Eli?”
    â€œWell, it’s ‘neurological.’ I suppose they’ve done X-rays. I think I