The happy birch-wood is a good place to wait for my day-bright girl; a place of quick paths, green tracks of lovely color, with a veil of shining leaves on the fine boughs; a sheltered place for my gold-clad lady, a lawful place for the thrush on the tree, a lovely place on the hillside, a place of green tree-tops, a place for two in spite of the Cuckold’s wrath; a concealing veil for a girl and her lover, full of fame is the greenwood; a place where the slender gentle girl, my love, will come to the leafy house made by God the Father.

—Dafydd ap Gwilym

How am I supposed to know if he was telling the truth? Parts of the story could’ve been made-up—maybe even the whole thing. Maybe he stole some of it from somebody else and made the rest up on his own. Or maybe it’s all true. I don’t know.

Is he here? Can you at least tell me that? Is he alive?

Do you think my story will change if you keep asking me to retell it? Is it in your interrogation manual? How boring. Of course it’ll change. It’s a story. Get it? Do you think Homer’s story about the Trojan War never changed? I’m alive. So is my story. Living things are always shifting.

What? I think my mother told me about Homer when I was a kid. I don’t remember.

Like I said, it might be true; it might be fabricated. Is this about him or me? Why are you so desperate to find out what he told me? Is this some kind of experiment? How long are you going to keep me here? Why won’t you tell me where he is?

Okay. One more time. But only if you answer this question first: Is he alive? Yes? Okay. From the beginning.

***

The glare of the sun on the sand causes him to wonder if a blind man might see light rather than darkness. When he closes his eyes, the light is still there, though dimmer, his eyelids muting the brightness. The sand is hot under his cheek. His groin feels damp. He is afraid to touch down there for fear he is bleeding. Curling into the fetal position, he wants to weep but cannot.

When he opens his eyes, he finds himself in a latticework of shade cast by a creosote bush. The sun, a white glob of brightness, vibrates at the edge of the horizon. He can’t tell if it is rising or setting.

The shadows from the bush are too thin to do much good, but they soften the glare of sunlight reflecting off the sand. His tongue sticks to the top of his mouth. Black flies flit about his ears, crawl in and out of his nostrils.

He can’t remember his name.

He sits up, looking at the backpack tucked under the bush. He looks at his crotch. His khaki trousers are dusty and dry. He puts a hand on his balls. They radiate heat.

Dunes of white sand dotted with creosote and mesquite roll into the distance. Peeling his tongue from the roof of his mouth, he attempts to work up a mouthful of spit. When he swallows, the pea of moisture vanishes halfway down his throat.

He unbuttons his long-sleeved cotton shirt, takes it off, and folds it. Then, he stretches out on his back in the thin shade of the bush and rests his head on the shirt. A small dust devil, as if conjured by a lesser demon, springs to life and spins into the bush. Sand skids across his chest. Later, he muses, when he is dead from exposure, the sand will swallow him up if the vultures and coyotes don’t get him first. He closes his eyes and listens to the buzzing of flies.

***

The moment the door closes, the tension leaks out of my neck. There is peace in being alone. But I’m never alone.

There are no clocks. No time. Just a room with red padded walls, a floor covered with black wrestling mats, and tubes of fluorescent light set inches apart on the ceiling. The lights never go out. The hiss of electricity in the tubes erases thought, amplifying the sound of the heart beating in my chest.

I sense their return before the lock clicks and the door opens. I have no idea how long they’ve been gone. They wear white hazmat suits. Air pumps click on the oxygen tanks on their backs. The face shields of their helmets reflect fluorescent light like mirrors in a winter storm. I know them by the way they move. The female is shorter, lighter, the curves of her hips noticeable under the protective suit. He’s heavy, older, probably bald and married to a fat lady who complains as she bakes buttery cakes in the kitchen while he drinks beer and watches his computer screen in the living room.

The female does the talking. Always. The man never says a word. He sets up the equipment and stands in a corner of the room watching. I think she outranks him. When she talks, her voice purrs from the back of her throat like a mother comforting a sick child.

But I’m no child. And I’m not sick.

***

I already told you. He couldn’t remember how he got there. He couldn’t even remember his name. I don’t know. Maybe somebody kidnapped him. Maybe he went on a bender and the drugs and booze wiped his memory. Maybe he was looking for redemption in a drug-induced forgetting of sins. You know, maybe he took a trip to the Jungle. You can get anything you want there if you know the way—even if you don’t know what you want. Maybe he OD’d. Don’t you get it? He couldn’t remember.

Yes, I believed him. Why wouldn’t I? Because he was a stranger? Is that a crime? Maybe to you, but I wanted to help. I had to believe him if I was going to help him.

I don’t know how he got out there. I guess he wandered in from the Outside.

She stands above me with her hands on her hips. A vapor of perfume trails out from underneath her protective gear. A hint of sweetwood. I want to see her eyes. I need to see her eyes.

***

The yap of coyotes awakens him. At first, he believes it’s human laughter. The night is cold. A full moon hangs over the horizon like an egg ready to crack. The light is the same color as the sand. It would be beautiful if he wasn’t so thirsty—if his tongue wasn’t too big in his mouth.

His knees pop as he stands. He winces from a pain in his ribs. It’s difficult to breathe. He knows that if he doesn’t get to water, he’ll die. And water isn’t going to come to him. There’s nothing to do but walk. He takes up the backpack and limps toward the moon.

The sun rises behind him. The light on the sand changes from moonbeam white to watermelon red. When he looks up from the sand, the moon is gone. The angular outline of a building wavers on the horizon. His head throbs. He looks at his hands, noticing the purple tint underneath his fingernails. He falls to his knees. He tries to stand but cannot.

***

That’s how I found him. Kneeling in the sand, hands clasped under his chin, eyes closed. He didn’t know I was there. As far as he was concerned, I was invisible.

Her shoulders tense. The man checks the gauges on the machines. This is the part of the story that interests them. I must have told it fifty times.

No. I told you. I noticed him when I walked out of the Outpost. I was headed to the glasshouse to get a cantaloupe from the greenhouse for my breakfast.

What?

She smells of sweetwood.

I told you. His eyes were closed. His face was dry as dust. Skin flaked from the cracks in his lips. Yes. He might have. He might have been praying. Do people still do that? He had his hands clasped under his chin. His lips were moving, his body trembling. No. No, he wasn’t crying. Why do you ask? You don’t know where he is, do you? What is it that you want from him? From me?

She stands. Her shoulders relax. Why would she wear perfume to an interrogation?

If you have him, you’re going to need to prove to me that he’s alive. I’m not taking your word for it. Not anymore. If you don’t prove it by tomorrow, I won’t say another word. And I’m a man of my word. You know that about me, don’t you? You understand. A man of convictions. Come back tomorrow.

The man packs the electronics into cases as the woman stands, looking down on me.

I want to rip away her helmet. I need to see her eyes.

 The man opens the door and carries the cases into the hallway. He’s engulfed in white light. She follows him into the hall, turns, and looks at me. Then, she closes the door. The lock clicks.

How will I know when tomorrow arrives?