Strangers

her face twisted and hardened with anxiety.
        Pablo could have told her that her apparent memories of those four days at the Tranquility Motel were false. He could have ordered her to blow them out of her mind the way one might blow dust from an old book, and she would have done it. Then he could have told her that her true memories were locked behind an Azrael Block, and that she must hammer it into more dust. But if he had done so, she would have plunged, as programmed, into a coma - or worse. He would have to spend many days, possibly weeks, looking for tiny cracks to exploit cautiously.
        For today, he contented himself with identifying the precise number of hours of her life that had been stolen from her. He took her back to Friday, July 6, of the summer before last, and asked exactly when she signed the register at the Tranquility Motel.
        "A little after eight o'clock." She no longer spoke in a wooden voice because these were real memories. "It was still an hour before sunset, but I was exhausted. All I wanted was dinner, a shower, and bed." She described the man and woman behind the check-in counter in detail. She even recalled their names: Faye and Ernie.
        Pablo said, "Once you had checked in, you ate at the Tranquility Grille next to the motel. So describe the place."
        She did so, and in convincing detail. But when he jumped her ahead to the moment at which she left the restaurant, her recollections were phony again, thin and without color. Clearly, her memories had been altered from some point after she had gone into the Tranquility Grille on that Friday evening until she had left the motel and had headed toward Utah the following Tuesday morning.
        Pablo backtracked, returning Ginger to the small restaurant once more, searching for the exact moment at which the genuine memories ended and the false began. "Tell me about your dinner from the moment you went into Tranquility Grille that Friday evening. Minute by minute."
        Ginger sat up straight in her chair. Her eyes were still closed, but under the shuttered lids, they moved visibly, as if she were looking left and right upon entering the Tranquility Grille. She unfisted her hands and got up, much to Pablo's surprise. She walked away from her chair, toward the center of the room. He walked beside her to prevent her from bumping into furniture. She did not know she was in his apartment but imagined herself to be making her way between the tables in the restaurant. As she moved, the tension and fear left her, for now she was wholly in that time, prior to all her trouble, when she had had nothing about which to be tense or afraid.
        In a quiet, anxiety-free voice she said, "Took me a while to freshen up and get over here, so it's almost twilight. Outside, the plains are orange in the late sunlight, and the inside of the diner is full of that glow. I think I'll take that booth over in the corner by the window."
        Pablo went with her, guiding her past the Picasso painting toward one of the sofas that was decorated with colorful pastel accent pillows.
        She said, "Mmmm. Smells good. Onions… spices… French fries…"
        "How many people in the diner, Ginger?"
        She paused and turned her head, surveying the room with closed eyes. "The cook behind the counter and a waitress. Three men…. truck drivers, I guess…. on stools at the counter. And…. three at that table…. and the chubby priest… another guy over at that booth…" Ginger continued pointing and counting. "Oh, eleven in all, plus me."
        "All right," Pablo said, "let's go to that booth by the windows."
        She began walking again, smiled vaguely at someone, sidestepped an obstacle that only she could see, then suddenly twitched in surprise, jerked one hand to her face. "Oh!" She stopped.
        "What is it?" Pablo asked. "What's happened?"
        She blinked furiously for a moment, smiled, and spoke to someone in the Tranquility Grille back there on July 6 of last year. "No, no, I'm all right. It's nothing. I've already brushed it off." She wiped her face with one hand. "See?" She had been looking down, as if the other person was seated, and now she raised her eyes as he got up.
        Pablo waited for her to continue the conversation.
        She said, "Well, when you spill salt you'd better throw some over your shoulder, or God knows what'll happen. My father used to throw it three times, so if you'd