The girl was absolutely still. I don’t know what I expected. That she’d cry? Scream? Deny it? According to Greer, that was what most people did. But not her. Her eyes drifted away from me to a patch of grass between us. Her chest rose and fell evenly. I thought about how, over time, everything that happens to us—what we do and see and feel—comes together and makes what we think of as reality. What’s possible. What isn’t. Who we are. What we believe. It was as if the girl was bearing down and rewriting all of those things through force of will alone, finding a way to integrate Black River and Lassiter’s and this new blank slate in her head.
It was pretty amazing.
When the process was done, the girl came out from between the boulders and opened the paper sack. She ate the biscuits and a green apple, right down to the core. I tossed her the bottle of water that was sitting inside her tent. She drained it in a single pull.
“How about some good news?” I asked.
I want to say she smiled then, but it wasn’t quite a smile, more like the ghost of one.
“Somewhere at the bottom of this mountain you’ve got a family and friends waiting for you. You’ve got a name. A home.”
I pointed at the key around her neck. “That probably unlocks the front door.”
Her fingertips went to the key. She lifted it carefully, as if it were made of glass.
“My friend Greer, he’s the best at figuring out who people are. With him on the case we can probably have you back in your own bed by tonight. Once you’re there, well, you won’t remember, but at least you’ll know. You know? And hey, if nothing else, it’d be nice to call you something other than Green-Haired Girl.”
She released the key, then moved away from the edge of the mountain. I backed off as she approached, but she stopped before she got too close. She looked curiously at my mask and then extended her hand.
My knife lay in her palm, the hilt facing me.
“I decided I’m probably not going to have to stab you.”
She couldn’t see it, but I smiled behind my mask.
“Thanks.”
I took the knife, and then she stepped past me and through the veil of trees. I stood a moment in the quiet, looking at the blade and thinking about how its serrations reminded me of the teeth of a key. I slipped it back into its sheath and followed the green-haired girl down the trail.
10
WHEN WE FOUND Greer, I’m pretty sure she was having second thoughts about returning my knife. I couldn’t blame her—the whole setup was pretty weird.
He was sitting in a small meadow halfway between camp and the reservoir. It was empty except for two straight-backed chairs facing each other a few feet apart. Greer sat in one of them with his eyes closed, his hands resting lightly on his thighs, taking slow, deep breaths.
Beside him there was a stack of books and an open cardboard box. Inside was a yo-yo, a pennywhistle, a baseball, a set of drumsticks, three large stuffed animals, a tape recorder, and multiple stacks of note cards covered with strings of words or pictures copied from the library.
“Greer just, uh . . . he takes this whole thing pretty seriously. Have a seat.”
She must have decided it wasn’t an elaborate trap, because she marched out into the meadow and deposited herself in the chair across from him. A minute or two passed. Then two more.
“Um . . . Greer? Buddy?”
He held up one finger, then rolled his neck in circles until it crackled. Who would have guessed that a master showman was trapped deep within his old scowling exterior?
Greer’s eyes popped open. He rummaged in the box for a notebook and pencil and held them out to me. I took them and retreated to a spot by the trees. Taking notes on these sessions was my job.
He loudly cleared his throat, then sat forward in his chair, directing every iota of his attention on the green-haired girl.
“Has your nose been running?” he asked. “Are your eyes itchy?”
She looked at me.
I shrugged.
“Um. Maybe a little bit?”
“Any difficulty breathing? A cough? Weakness in your elbows, knees, or ankles?”
“No.”
He popped out of his chair and began a series of slow revolutions around the girl, studying her from every angle as if she were a prized horse.
“Good muscle tone,” he said. “Broad shoulders. Smile for me?”
What she managed was nearer to a grimace, but it was close enough.
“Straight teeth. No piercings of any kind. No visible tattoos. Hair is recently dyed and cut. Eyebrows indicate her natural color is brown.” He reached out and tipped her head back into the sun. “A light, honey brown.”
I struggled not to roll my eyes as I wrote. “Hair the color of honey. Got it.”
Greer dropped to his knees and took both her hands.
“Small calluses on the fingertips of her left hand. Nails are short. Not cut, though. They look chewed. No indications of nail polish. No rings.”
His eyes fixed on the key. He glanced over his shoulder. “Is it normal for people to wear these as jewelry?”
I shook my head. He turned back to the girl and reached for the key, but she smacked his hand away before he could touch it.
“Interesting,” he said. “Take off your shoes, please.”
“Why?”
“It is vitally important that I examine your toes.”
The girl crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. Perhaps realizing that discretion was the better part of valor, Greer backed off. He stood across from her, still staring intently, his chin balanced on his fist.
“What do you think?” he asked me.