"Yes, you were sick. I’ll explain later. But you’ve regained consciousness now. That’s good. I’m Dr. Gratarolo. Forgive me if I ask you some questions. How many fingers am I holding up?"

"That’s a hand and those are fingers. Four of them. Are there four?"

"That’s right. And what’s six times six?"

"Thirty-six, of course." Thoughts were rumbling through my head, but they came as if of their own accord. "The sum of the areas of the squares… built on the two legs… is equal to the area of the square built on the hypotenuse."

"Well done. I think that’s the Pythagorean theorem, but I got a C in math in high school…"

"Pythagoras of Samos. Euclid’s elements. The desperate loneliness of parallel lines that never meet."

"Your memory seems to be in excellent condition. And by the way, what’s your name?"

That is where I hesitated. And yet I did have it on the tip of my tongue. After a moment I offered the most obvious reply.

"My name is Arthur Gordon Pym."

"That isn’t your name."

Of course, Pym was someone else. He did not come back again. I tried to come to terms with the doctor.

"Call me… Ishmael?"

"Your name is not Ishmael. Try harder."

A word. Like running into a wall. Saying Euclid or Ishmael was easy, like saying Jack and Jill went up a hill. Saying who I was, on the other hand, was like turning around and finding that wall. No, not a wall; I tried to explain. "It doesn’t feel like something solid, it’s like walking through fog."