The Memory Painter

She did not look up from the mandala she was creating. “Who is not the question,” she said. “The question is where.” She stood up and spread her arms wide and the wind swirled, sending the sand drawing back into the void from which it came.

In a moment of clarity Bryan realized he already knew the answer to her question.

He was at the beginning.



TWENTY-EIGHT

MARCH 8, 1982

Michael woke up, disoriented. He hadn’t meant to fall sleep. Unlike the recalls, this dream had been filled with disjointed images. The Egyptian queen had been with him again, only Michael hadn’t been himself, but a younger man—and she had drawn a magnificent symbol in the sand. Why?

Right on the cusp of remembering more, Michael looked over at the clock. He was surprised to see that it was already seven o’clock at night. He sat up with a start and the fragments of the dream vanished.

His back protested as he stretched his legs out on the couch. He had been sleeping on it for the past four days after Diana had locked herself in their bedroom.