“You don’t know who I am, do you?” she asked.

My mouth felt dry. “Should I know?”

“You don’t remember?”

Remember what?I wanted to ask her. Instead, I merely shook my head.

She reached out and took my hand. Her fingers felt cool and calming on my skin. “It’s all right,” she said. “I’ll help you. That’s why I’m here.”

“To help me?” My mind was whirling now. What did she mean?

“Do you remember the two men who were sitting at the bar this afternoon?”

“The golden one…” His image was burning in my memory.

“And the other. The dark one.” Aretha’s face was somber now. “You remember the other one?”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t remember who they are, do you?”

“Should I?”

“You must,” she said, gripping my hand tightly. “It is imperative.”

“But I don’t know who they are. I never saw them before today.”

She let her head sink back on the pillows. “You have seen them. We both have. But you can’t remember any of it.”

I heard the squeak-squeak of the nurse’s footsteps approaching. “This is all very confusing,” I said to Aretha. “Why was the restaurant bombed? Who’s behind it all?”

“That’s not important. I’m here to help you recall your mission. What happened this afternoon is trivial.”

“Trivial? Four people were killed!”

The nurse’s hissing whisper cut through our conversation, “That’s all, sir. She needs her rest.”

“But…”

“She needs her rest!”

Aretha smiled at me. “It’s all right. You can come back tomorrow. I’ll tell you about it then.”

Reluctantly, I bade her good-bye and left the hospital.

As I walked slowly through the hospital’s busy maze of corridors, I paid no attention to the people rushing along beside me. Their individual tales of grief and pain were as far from me as the most distant star. My mind was boiling, seething, from the tantalizing scraps of information that Aretha had given me.