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  It’s not particularly helpful. And I’m definitely testing her patience when I ask again if she doesn’t remember seeing the man or can tell me anything about his physical demeanor. I observe that he was clutching his chest as he departed; did she notice? Was he limping?

  Finally, I ask her about the piece of paper that fell from the man’s pocket, the one with my name on it and the other name—Sandy Vello. Did she see it fall?

  She shrugs. “Maybe it’s yours. Maybe it fell out with all the rest of this stuff.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Your backpack droppings were everywhere. You’ve got a mishmash of things. You took a pretty good hit to your head. It can shake your sense of reality.”

  She smiles, the same compassionate but sad smile she gave the beggar when I first saw her at the turnstile. A beggar in the shadows. I’m about to ask another question, but she turns to go.

  I blurt out: “Please take my card, in case you think of anything about that guy. And can I at least have your info, in case I need to follow up?” I tug two business cards from my wallet.

  She takes and studies one. It reads: “Nat Idle: By the Word.” She tucks it into her coat pocket. She scribbles something on the back of the other card and hands it back.

  “Can I offer you cab fare?” I ask.

  “I’m good. Take care of yourself.”

  She walks through the turnstiles and into the darkness.

  I look at the ten numbers on the card.

  Then I look at the scrap of paper I’ve been clutching this entire time, the one with my name and the other one, Sandy Vello.

  I don’t recognize the handwriting. It’s certainly not mine. I know this didn’t come from my backpack. Still, am I making more of this than it is? But, if so, isn’t that my stock-in-trade? I’ve built a business and a life pursuing mysteries—little, medium and occasionally big. Just like Isaac, everything is a curiosity to be examined, touched, tasted, understood. I’m a toddler with a pen.

  But there’s something else: real anger. I could’ve died.

  I indulge myself in that for a bit, but then my thoughts return to someone else. I’m wondering about this Sandy Vello. What if she’s a target too? What if she has a kid, spouse, partner, or general desire to live?

  I walk back to the top of the majestic stairs and pull out my phone. It’s a first-generation iPhone, which in these parts makes me a Luddite, joke fodder, recipient of sad looks on public transportation. I call up an Internet browser and finger in Sandy Vello’s name. In the customary minute it takes for the results to load, I watch a man on a bike pedal by, undaunted in the rain, a dog in his back saddle wearing a yellow slicker. Watching makes my knee ache and I wonder when I’ll get back on a basketball court, my thirty-seven-year-old joints and weather permitting.

  Google returns its wisdom, 171,000 related web pages’ worth. Big help, Google.

  I run the same search but for recent news. I get a hit. Sandy Vello has been in the news lately. Ten days ago, she was hit by a car in Woodside, a suburb in the hills half an hour south of San Francisco. She was killed.

  I’m reading an obituary.

  3

  True to my business card, I make my living with words. Ideally getting $1.50 for each one. That’s been easier since I exposed the plot to destroy our brains.

  A year ago, I wrote a series of articles about how a venture capitalist with ties to the military was developing technology to store secrets inside fallow memory space in the human mind. The conspirators wanted to use brain capacity like computer disc space. The idea was to allow seemingly harmless humans (like the elderly or even children) to become stealth carriers of data, able to cross borders or military lines. Without knowledge of the carry or the suspicion of enemies. The brilliant conceit: the bad guys might know how to hack a password-protected supercomputer, but they won’t be able to hack the brain of an eighty-five-year-old with dementia.

  It’s not nearly as farfetched as it sounds, at least in theory, given the malleability of the hippocampus, the brain’s memory gateway. But in practice, the development of the technology entailed tinkering with and even destroying the memories of human guinea pigs, without their knowledge or permission. By happenstance, one of the guinea pigs was my grandmother, the iconoclastic octogenarian Lane Idle.

  Grandma Lane’s memory began fading in and out, failing precipitously, regurgitating memories not her own. I was scared, curious and then angry, and followed some leads. Story of my life.

  Long story short: I wrote a story about the scheme, got some notoriety, banged out a string of freelance pieces about the impact of technology on the brain, scored periodic appearances on CNN, experienced the most intense work year of my life, won an award for investigative medical journalism and—trust me that this relates—now need to borrow a tie.

  It’s not that I don’t own a tie, but it has big polka dots and probably will be seen as obnoxious at tomorrow’s journalism awards luncheon at a private room at MacArthur Park in Palo Alto.

  Sartorially, I remain unevolved, another late-thirtysomething unable to dress his age. But professionally, for the first time, I’m on solid footing. I even get a premium for my blog posts, $50 for some of them, having become something of a go-to journalist for investigations and wide-eyed tips involving neuroscience.

  Which brings me to Sandy Vello.

  According to her brief obituary in the San Mateo Daily News, the deceased worked as an administrator in the emerging neurotechnology division of a company called PRISM Corporation. She lived west of Burlingame, did regular volunteer work at the learning annex at the Twin Peaks juvenile hall, and enjoyed a modest fame in having been a contestant on an early episode of Last One Standing, a reality show that entails out-surviving other contestants over twelve weeks of humiliation and bug eating. There was no photo.

  I haven’t heard of PRISM Corp. I Google it and discover Pacific Rim Integrated Solutions and Management, a nondescript corporate web site, dark blue background with an image in the upper right corner of a ship on the high seas. A close look shows the ship to be constructed of thousands of ones and zeroes.

  A section labeled “About PRISM” indicates the company makes software kernels that power “a range of consumer, multimedia and industrial products, from clock radios to home alarm systems.” There’s no mention of a neurotechnology department.

  I find a handful of other references to PRISM. There’s one PDF document filed with U.S. Immigration Services indicating that PRISM, a company with fifty-five employees, last year requested seven short-term work visas for foreign-born engineers. It’s not out of the ordinary; virtually every high-tech firm, from Amazon to Yahoo, seeks visas for highly skilled software engineers from India and Turkey.

  I’m baffled. I’m wondering what could possibly be the connection between a deceased former reality-TV-show contestant and me. The chief connection I can make is that I sometimes write about the brain and, at least according to her obituary, Sandy Vello worked on neurotechnology. And for a story, I once visited the juvenile hall at Twin Peaks, a salmon-colored prison, administrative building and learning annex for San Francisco’s wayward teens where Sandy volunteered. The connection between she and I is, in a word, tenuous.

  This is what preoccupies me so much that I nearly light my foot on fire.

  I’m standing at the entrance to my office, having just barely sidestepped a mound of dirt with a candle sticking out of the top that sits just inside the door. I look up to see a handful of other such be-candled dirt mounds around the edges of the small office, forming a circle. In the center of the room sits my office mate, Samantha. She’s got her arms crossed over her chest, her palms resting on her shoulders. She wears a peasant blouse and a patient smile.

  “You almost made Mamma angry,” she says.

  “Whose mamma? Or should I say: who is Mamma?”

  “Mamma Earth. She’s helping drive away the negative detritus and the painful memories.”

  I look down at
the mound of dirt. “You’re allowed to stick candles in Mamma, but I’m not allowed to lovingly brush her with the bottom of my high-tops?”

  She pulls herself to her feet. She smiles bemusedly, clearly dealing with a less-evolved creature. Then her full lips turn in, a slight frown. Slight. Sam can command a thousand complex emotions but for the sake of being straightforward with the universe, she tries to reduce them to three: mild displeasure, peacefulness, mild joy. She blinks.

  “Whoa.” She studies me. “Yellow with bits of orange.”

  To anyone who hasn’t met Sam, this makes no sense. But I’ve spent years having her read my aura, or Karmic glow, or whatever it is.

  “Serious unresolved tension.” She states the not-so-mysterious. She stands up, walks over to me, flips on the light by the door. “And green. Gross.”

  “What’s green? My aura?”

  “The throw-up stain on your shoulder.”

  “Isaac. Serious unresolved dinner.”

  She shakes her head, looks at me quizzically. “It’s nearly ten.” Maybe meaning: Why are you here and not at home?

  I shrug. Half smile. She knows I can take refuge here since the breakup.

  She leans in and kisses my cheek, tenderly, like a mom or big sister, which she is, in a way. She pulls back and holds my gaze, betraying sympathy in the wrinkles around her soft brown eyes. She’s got a round face that I sometimes think of as a distant, wondrous planet.

  Samantha Leary and her husband, Dennis, ten years my senior, are great friends, limitless sounding boards, and my veritable family, despite being two of the kookiest people in a city filled with their like-minded, soulful ilk. Sam is a masseuse, spiritual healer, and uncannily accurate reader of moods who has freed herself of all conventional wisdom in a search to feel peaceful and help others do the same. Recently, she spent two weeks taking natural hallucinogens in marathon sessions in a rain forest in Chile and claiming to get wisdom by talking to ancient plants. She is known to those of us who love her as “the Witch.”

  Dennis goes by “Bullseye,” thanks to the time he hit a bar waitress with a dart, ostensibly by accident. He’s the Witch’s polar opposite, a clinical, coldly logical thinker, and borderline autistic in his focus on math and all things computers. He says little, preferring to spend his time perched on a stool sipping an Anchor Steam at the Pastime Bar, which has long been our hangout. For the last six months, the Witch and I have spent more time at our joint office, which we decided to get when I started making money from journalism and she said she decided to treat her healing efforts more like a business.

  She’s got a way to go. Her business card is blank. She says people will find her when they need her.

  It makes me wonder if she has different motives. She’s been keeping a close eye on me. She says I’m working too much, am more likely than ever to see conspiracies and look for great stories, and then pursue them to obsessive end.

  She avoids putting too fine a point on it but I know what she thinks: when things ended with Polly, the vivacious entrepreneur who birthed Isaac, I moved ever closer to the fine line between journalism and madness.

  The Witch puts her hands on my chest and closes her eyes. Her palms are not just warm, but hot. She’d say that’s because we’re exchanging energy. Maybe. A different explanation for the heat, the clinical medical explanation, is that the hands act as veritable temperature controls for the body, the heavy blood flow to and from the palms allowing for feelings of hot and cold disproportionate to the rest of the body.

  Samantha inhales deeply. I know she’s trying to shake something loose inside me, but I’m resistant, partly a skeptic, mostly a still racing mind. I look around our ratty one-room office, 120 square feet of yin and yang. On the right, my desk, a study in scrap heap: strewn papers and magazines, my laptop asleep in the midst; my only decoration a grainy picture of an embryo—Isaac at just a few seconds old, the first time I saw him—taped to the wall above my faux-wood pop-together desk of Scandinavian design.

  To my left, Samantha’s oak desk, with a single sheet of paper aligned in the middle. No computer. Her chair is a wooden stool, which she says forces her to focus on her posture, allowing energy to flow more easily in and out of her body.

  Samantha’s hair smells clean but flat, fragrance-free, and she’s got a ton of it. I’ve never seen anything grow so quickly: thick, wild and relentless, a veritable bird’s nest. One month, she shaves it to the scalp, the next it’s a whirlwind of brown. I’ve wondered if she’s got a variation of hirsutism, abnormal hair growth, all of it serendipitously placed on top of her head.

  “Faith.” The word pops out of my mouth.

  “That’s right. Have faith.”

  “No.” I step back.

  “Faith. The brunette from the subway.”

  For just an instant, the Witch grits her teeth, betraying frustration at the failed trance. But maybe it had its impact after all, and shaken loose a valuable revelation.

  “I’m being played.”

  4

  I close my eyes and picture the subway station. When I’d first entered the train station, I’d seen Faith, the brunette do-gooder, give money to a beggar.

  I look into Samantha’s wise eyes. “The beggar was the same man who knocked me over.”

  “What are you talking about, Nathaniel?”

  “Maybe the beggar wasn’t a beggar at all,” I venture. “Maybe Faith wasn’t giving him money, but just talking to him. Were they coordinating something?”

  Samantha shakes her head. She’s heard me do this before, begin stories in the middle, or the end.

  “Let me get unloaded and I’ll explain.”

  I take the short walk to my desk, dodging candles. I remove my backpack, noticing with a slight grimace the likely mortal tear to the black fabric. I’ve taken pride in its longevity, maybe like a construction worker gets worn into boots. I put the bag down. I look at the picture of Isaac, pink and crinkly. What a gift.

  I gesture for Sam to join me on the blue futon that lies near a far wall and that she uses to give massages when I’m not around and to meditate even when I am. I tell her what happened at the train station, leaving out the part about the blow to the head. I imagine that Sam, hostile as she generally is to Western medicine, would pile me immediately into the hair on top of her head and fly me to the emergency room.

  When I finish, she says: “May I risk upsetting you?”

  “How so?”

  “I’m going to tell you what the plants told me.”

  I gather she’s referring to her Chilean visit and communing with the ancient vegetation. “The plants told you about what happened at the train station, or what was going to happen?”

  “They told me that obsessing about mystery is a neurosis, a kind of pathology. Worrying about the unknown or anticipating an outcome is the biggest test to our true happiness.”

  “Getting run over by a train would be a true test of my happiness?”

  “You weren’t run over.”

  “So you’re saying let it go?”

  “Of course not. Call this Faith, or ask some questions about that poor woman who got hit by a car. But don’t spin yourself into conspiracy theories. That’s your way of—”

  I finish her thought. “Uncovering vast international conspiracies.” I smile.

  “Of not dealing with your personal life. I should go.” She stands. She’s made her point. “Go home. Skip the late-night conspiracy spinning.”

  I notice she doesn’t ask about Isaac. She seems increasingly reticent about doing so. I would never ask her but I think she regrets never having had children. She’s professionally maternal, without her own offspring.

  I drag myself to the hallway, where there is a full bathroom, replete with shower, accessible by keypad. We, the office tenants of the second floor, keep it locked to dissuade vagrants and the patrons of the retail shop that resides on the floor below us. It’s a sex shop called Green Love that sells sex toys and paraphernalia that are
made using sustainable and eco-friendly manufacturing processes and natural resources. Their tagline: Guilt-free ’gasms.

  At the bathroom door, I key in Isaac’s birthday, essential numbers, eminently hackable, my stand against an overly complicated world. I open the door and inhale mildew not fully overcome by the floral-scented candle the Witch set on the toilet.

  In the mirror, I see the product of a long day, followed by a very bad night, mitigated by a decent haircut. At Samantha’s prompting, I managed to get to a barber earlier this week, in time for tomorrow’s magazine award luncheon. I look my age, give or take. I wonder what Faith saw when she looked at me; I’ve got symmetrical features and a prominent nose, looks that, I’m told, resemble some actor who regularly plays the ethnic-looking detective. I never had problems getting the girl. Just keeping her.

  In the recessed medicine cabinet, I find Tylenol and take three tablets. I wash them down with tap water I drink from a plastic San Francisco Giants cup.

  I twist my head in a variety of directions so that I can see the back of my skull in the cabinet mirror. This proves (obviously) impossible and absolutely comical, enough so that I actually laugh out loud when I nearly fall over trying to reflect the image of the cut on the back of my head off of an aerosol can so that I can see it in the mirror.

  I return to my desk and snag my laptop. It’s brushed stainless steel with the Apple insignia on the cover, a model that once was far outside my price range, but it’s a cast-off from Polly, the ex in the astronomical tax bracket. I carry the computer to the futon, sit, and Google the symptoms for concussion. I know the answer before the Internet spits forth its wisdom—sharp impact, brief loss of consciousness, headache, nausea. But I also know the treatment: rest, fluids, watch for dizziness, changes in vision and, above all, get checked by a doctor.