Strangers

possession of her again. "I want to give you another shot."
        "But honey," Pete said, "you've already given me twenty shots."
        "I've got to practice," Marcie said. "I'll never grow up to be my own doctor if I don't start practicing now."
        Pete looked at Jorja with exasperation.
        Mary said, "What is it with this Little Ms. Doctor thing'?"
        "I wish I knew," Jorja said.
        Marcie grimaced -as she pushed the plunger of the fake hypodermic. Perspiration glistened on her brow.
        "I wish I knew," Jorja repeated uneasily.
        
        Boston, Massachusetts.
        It was the worst Christmas of Ginger Weiss's life.
        Although Jewish, her beloved father had always celebrated Christmas in a secular spirit, because he liked the harmony and good will that the holiday promoted, and after his death, Ginger had continued to regard December 25 as a special day, a time of joy. Until today, Christmas had never depressed her.
        George and Rita did all they could to make Ginger feel a part of their celebration, but she was acutely aware that she was an outsider. The Hannabys' three sons had brought their families to Baywatch for several days, and the huge house was filled with the silvery laughter of children. Everyone made an effort to include Ginger in all the Hannaby traditions, from popcorn-stringing to neighborhood caroling.
        Christmas morning, she was there to watch the children attack the mountain of gifts, and following the example of the other adults, she crawled around on the floor with the kids, helping them assemble and play with their new toys. For a couple of hours, her despair abated, and she was assimilated by the Hannaby family in spite of herself.
        However, at lunch - rich with holiday delicacies yet essentially a light meal, just a hint of the extravagant dinner feast to come that evening - Ginger felt out of place again. Much conversation involved reminiscences of previous holidays of which she'd not been a part.
        After lunch, she pleaded a headache and escaped to her room. The splendid view of the bay calmed her but couldn't arrest her spiral into depression. She desperately hoped Pablo Jackson would call tomorrow and say that he had studied the problem of memory blocks and was ready to hypnotize her again.
        Ginger's visit to Pablo had distressed George and Rita less than she had expected. They were upset that she had gone out alone, risking an amnesic seizure with no friend to help her, and they made her promise she would allow either Rita or one of the servants to drive her to and from Pablo's apartment in the future, but they did not attempt to argue against the unconventional treatment she had sought from the magician.
        The bay view's capacity to calm Ginger was limited. She turned from the window, got up, and went to the bed, where she was surprised to find two books on the nightstand. One was a fantasy by Tim Powers, an author she had read before, the other a copy of something called Twilight in Babylon and she had no idea where they had come from.
        There were half a dozen other books in the room, borrowed from the library downstairs, for during the past few weeks she had had little to do but read. But this was the first time she'd seen Powers' book and Twilight in Babylon. The former, a tale of time-traveling trolls fighting their own secret war against British goblins during the American revolution, looked delightful, the type of exotic story that her father had enjoyed. A slip of paper laid loosely in the front identified it as a review copy. Rita had a friend who was a reviewer for the Globe, and who sometimes passed along intriguing books before they were available in the stores. Evidently, these had come within the last day or two, and Rita, aware of Ginger's tastes in fiction, had put them in her room.
        She set the Powers book aside for later delectation, and she took a closer look at Twilight in Babylon. She had never heard of the author, Dominick Corvaisis, but the brief summary of the story was intriguing, and when she had read the first page, she was hooked. However, before continuing, she moved from the bed to one of the comfortable chairs and, only then, glanced at the author's photograph on the back of the jacket.
        Her breath caught in her throat. Fear filled her.
        For a moment she thought the photograph was going to be the kicker that knocked her into