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By Root 685 0

small, overcrowded, noisy apartment where we lived so I could hug him and ruffle his hair, and marvel yet again that such an intelligent, wonderful child was mine.

“Thank you,” I said, handing the cell phone back to May. “My son is only nine. I knew he would be worried about what happened to me.”

“Nine.” May and Kaawa exchanged another glance. “Nine . . . years?”

“Yes, of course.” I sidled away, just in case one or both of the women turned out to be crazy after all. “This is very awkward, but I’m afraid I have no memory of either of you. Have we met?”

“Yes,” Kaawa said. She wore a pair of loose-fitting black palazzo pants, and a beautiful black top embroidered in silver with all sorts of Aboriginal animal designs. Her hair was twisted into several braids, pulled back into a short ponytail. “I met you once before, in Cairo.”

“Cairo?” I prodded the solid black mass that was my memory. Nothing moved. “I don’t believe I’ve ever been in Cairo. I live in Spain, not Egypt.”

“This was some time ago,” the woman said carefully.

Perhaps she was someone I had met while traveling with Dr. Kostich. “Oh? How long ago?”

She looked at me silently for a moment, then said, “About three hundred years.”