It would be much easier, I can't help but think, without those memories. Without thirty imaginary years which keep trying to tell me I'm something I'm not, trying to deny what I now know to be true. Or think I know, since god knows I don't think I'll ever be certain of anything, ever again. Maybe it's just force of habit, and eventually I'll learn to think around it. Right now it's hard to hope. But, to resume my narrative:
    "What's your name?" Travis asked more gently.
    "Sasha. You can keep calling me Needle, it'll help. Sorry," I added in a slightly more normal tone of voice. "Talking to you is... a really weird experience. No offense."
    "I'll go away if this is uncomfortable," he offered immediately.
    I shook my head. "No. I should—should deal with it."
    "Who made you?"
    Now we approached dangerous territory. "Travis..." I hesitated. "You should probably get back on a train to California."
    "Well, that wrecked my guess," he muttered.
    "This is a very, very ugly situation."
    "So it wasn't the Host, then?"
    "God, no." Startled that he should consider them a possibility. "Wish it was, I kind of like them."
    He shrugged. "It was out in L.A., they're all over the place there. You turned into a hero, it made sense."
    "No, no connection to them. I'm afraid the truth is a little bit uglier than that, and these people are ruthless." My tone and face must have conveyed something of what I wanted them to; he sat back and looked at me with no expression for a moment.
    "I was supposed to be on that plane." It wasn't a question.
    "I think so, yes. So, please..."
    "They killed everybody on that plane." In shock.
    "That's my suspicion."
    "My apartment—who called me?" he asked suddenly.
    "That's a very good question. There's more than one group at work here. It's... I don't know the names of the players and I have a really sketchy idea of the plot, and it's... it's just not safe," I finished lamely.
    "You think they're going to try and kill me? If they see us together they'll try and kill me."
    "They're probably not going to be happy that you talked to me."
    "They've already tried to kill me twice."
    I knew a lot of what he was feeling. I wished I could make this easier. Should I not have said anything? Just never contacted him? No way to know. No way to know if this entire scene wasn't being played out for my benefit.
    Dammit.
    "Oh Jesus. Your—her—parents," he said suddenly. "The rest of the actors...?"
    "They're fine as long as they don't come anywhere near Boston," I told him. He still looked stunned. "Looks like you were the only escapee. I can try to arrange police protection for you...."
    "No. No, if they're as big as you say that would just call attention to me, wouldn't it?"
    Prudence, I wondered, or was I talking to an enemy? "There is that chance, yes. I don't know how close an eye they're keeping on the situation."
    "Two years," he said with a certain amount of wonder.
    "Yeah. I have a question, if you don't mind," I said carefully.
    "Sure." Travis looked back towards me from the distance which had captured his attention.
    "The people you're working for these days, who are they?"
    "Cambridge Independent Theater."
    Meant nothing; I gave him a glance.
    "It's... like I said before, small theater work. They're doing a production of Peer Gynt."
    "They called you out from California for this?" Suspicions, suspicions. "You have any names?"
    He gave me a handful. "It's a small company, we travel sometimes. New York, New Jersey, we have a group of five usually, a set that can be broken down into three pieces when we're on the road. We do a really good Barefoot in the Park," he added with a flash of that smile.
    "I'll try to catch it sometime." I looked over at him and managed to stay in the present. "Look, I'm sorry you got pulled into this mess. You had no idea what was going on." I hope, I added silently.
    A long silence fell.
    "How many people were on that plane?"
    "Two hundred or so," I said quietly.
    "Two hundred," he repeated wonderingly. "Who are these people?"
    "You don't want to know."
    "They killed two hundred people to try and get me, and you won't tell me their name?" That was a hint of anger.
    "I don't know their names. The World Crime League, you probably think that's a soap opera fiction."
    "They were supposed to fight Buckaroo Banzai in the second film."
    That one went over my head. "That's all I can tell you, and that's telling you nothing at all. Trust me, if I knew who... I'd have done something about it by now." Or tried, at the very least.
    "I assume your teammates know about this, the state knows. You haven't told the press, obviously."
    Fleeting thoughts of Holly Shapiro. "No, not so far."
    "And you don't know why? Why would they make somebody who's going to be a hero?"
    "I've been wondering that myself, quite a bit. Like I said, I don't know most of the plot here. I've got vague outlines here and there. I have another question for you. You said that when you met her, Sarah was already in character. Was she ever out of character?"
    He thought about that, eyes on the distance again. "I want to say sure, but when I think about it... I figured she had been hired before me, and she was a deep method actor, she became the role. And we got paid by the hour, regardless of whether we were following the script or not, as long as we were in character." He looked directly at me. "No, I don't think I ever saw her as anyone other than... Sarah. I mean, looking back, it was a really weird relationship, we were both pretending to be people and yet... you can't fake that completely, we had some..." He trailed off in apparent confusion, his expression unhappy.
    "No. You're quite right," I told him. My throat hurt.
    Long silence.
    "I have to get going," he said at last. "I'll... be in touch. Or not, if you don't want me to. Once I've got a grip on... what you've just told me. I'm going to leave first, in case someone's watching."
     "Be careful. If you ever feel threatened, this is my direct number." I scribbled it on the napkin. He took it. "I'm sorry," I said helplessly, looking at that stunned expression.
    "You still have that copy of Fitzgerald I gave you?"
    "Yes," slipped out. I promised myself I wouldn't do that, wouldn't allow myself to forget where the line is. Dammit.
    "See you later. Maybe. Be careful."
    "I always am."

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