older.â
âEven if Iâm not.â
âSo, who was she?â
Sid shrugged with a careless clatter. âI donât know. Itâs just that when I saw her, I felt . . . something.â
âHappiness? Sadness? Love? Hate?â
âFear.â
âYou were afraid of her?â
âNot exactly, but seeing her made me afraid. Like a flashback. You remember that time you slammed your finger in the car door and had to go to the emergency room? For months afterward, you flinched every time somebody shut a car door.â
âI still do.â
âWell, it was like that. Seeing her reminded me of being scared.â
âBut you donât know why?â
He shook his head, his skull rattling alarmingly. âHow can I be afraid of something I donât remember? There was something else. I felt guilty, too, as if Iâd done something I shouldnât have or hadnât done something I should have. What if I did something bad when I was alive, Georgia?â
âThe statute of limitations has run out for anything you could have done,â I said, trying to make a joke and failing miserably. The fact was, we really didnât know who Sid had been before he was Sid.
It wasnât as though my family hadnât wondered who he was or where heâd come from, but heâd never been able to remember anything about his past. He knew how to walk, talk, and read, and his knowledge of current events and popular culture was no more than a year or so out of date, but that was it. Though Phil had quizzed him about the experiences of death and his bony rebirth, his earliest memory was the first moment he saw me.
Mom and Phil had spent quite a lot of time theorizing about his origins, deciding that he was either a ghost haunting his own skeleton, a vegetarian zombie, a government project gone very wrong, or the most amazing shared delusion ever. None of the explanations stood up to scrutiny, of course, but I hadnât really cared where Sid came from and Sid didnât seem to, either. Sid was just . . . Sid. As I told my parents, I could always count on him, even if I couldnât account for him.
And right now he was upset and in danger of falling apart. Unlike most people, when he fell apart, he really fell apart.
âTell me about this woman,â I said while there were still enough pieces hanging together for us to carry on a conversation. âWhat did she look like?â
âTall. Olderâlike in her sixties. Jeans and a down jacket. Outdoorsy looking.â
âDid you talk to her?â
âNo!â
âCould you read her name tag?â
âShe wasnât wearing one.â
âReally?â Security at the con had been kind of tightâI was surprised theyâd let anybody into the building without a tag.
âI donât think she was attending the con. She was looking around like she was confused, not turning her nose up or anything, but she clearly just didnât get it.â
âThen what?â
âThatâs it. She walked through the main hallway looking around, and I saw her meet some young guy and they left. And before you ask, I didnât recognize the guy and he didnât have a name tag, either.â
âThatâs it?â
âThatâs it.â
âAnd thatâs why you didnât want to go back to the con Sunday.â
âYeah. I was afraid Iâd see her again.â He paused, drumming his fingers noisily. âNow I donât know what to do.â
âYou donât have to do anything,â I pointed out. âAs long as you stay away from campus, youâll probably never see her again.â
âMaybe, but now I know sheâs out there. Iâve kind of got memories.â He shook his head. âNot exactly memories, but a feeling. Itâs like thereâs another person inside me, and I donât know who that person is. I donât
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