My drawings are the only true me at this point. There are not many memories left in my damaged brain. The images come in bursts that seem to tell a story. Then I get rivers of words. I hope they are the truth. Otherwise, I should be dead – as dead as they thought I was when they found me. When the pictures come to me, I draw them, show them to the deputy and tell him the story the best I can. We are in a hurry as there is still a woman missing.
I turn away from the taxi, and a shot of warm wind passes through my hair. I wrestle with getting the five dollar bill back into my wallet. But now, I am quite sure that I have made a grand miscalculation. Being in this place is not going to help anything. Leaving New York was inevitable, but the decision to stay with Great Aunt Edna whom I have never even met, is flawed.