Now they come through a door to a place that is both inside and out.
“Balcony!” he says.
“Yes,” Roberta tells him. “That one came easy.”
Beyond the balcony is an endless sea, shimmering in the warm sun, and before him are two chairs and a small table. On the table are cookies and a white beverage in a crystal pitcher. He should know the name of that beverage.
“Comfort food,” Roberta tells him. “Your reward for making the journey.”
They sit facing each other with the food between them and the guards at the ready, should he need their help, or should he try to hurl himself off the balcony to the jagged rocks below. There are soldiers with dark, heavy weapons positioned strategically on those rocks—there for his protection, Roberta tells him. He imagines that should he hurl himself down to them, the guards on the rocks would also call him “sir.”
Roberta pours the white liquid from its crystalline pitcher into crystalline glasses that catch the light, refracting it and splintering it in random projections on the stonework of the balcony.
He takes a bite of cookie. Chocolate chip. Suddenly the intensity of the flavor drags more memories out of hibernation. He thinks of his mother. Then another mother. School lunch. Burning his lip on a freshly baked Toll House. I like them best chewy and hot. I like them best hard and almost burnt. I’m allergic to chocolate. Chocolate is my favorite.
He knows all these things are true. How could they all be true? If he’s allergic, how could he have so many wonderful chocolate memories?
“The marathon riddle continuing,” he says.
Roberta smiles. “That was almost a complete sentence. Here, have something to drink.”
She holds the glass of cold white liquid to him, and he takes it.
“Have you given any thought to your name?” Roberta asks, just as he takes a sip—and all at once, as the flavorful fluid dislodges a piece of soft cookie from the roof of his mouth, more thoughts fly in. The combination of tastes forces a hundred thoughts through a sieve, leaving behind diamonds.
The electric eye machine. He knows what it’s called! And the white stuff, it’s from a cow, isn’t it? Cow juice. Starts with an M. Electric eye. “Cam!” Cow juice. “Moo!”
Roberta looks at him strangely.
“Cam . . . Moo . . . ,” he says again.
Her eyes sparkle, and she says, “Camus?”
“Cam. Moo.”
“Camus! What a splendid name. You’ve outdone yourself.”
“Camera!” he finally says. “Milk!” But Roberta isn’t listening anymore. He has sent her to a more exotic place.
“Camus, the existential philosopher! ‘Live to the point of tears.’ Kudos to you, my friend! Kudos!”
He has no idea what she’s talking about, but if it makes her happy, then it makes him happy. It feels good to know that he’s impressed her.
“Your name shall be Camus Composite-Prime,” she says with a grin on her face as wide as the shimmering sea. “Won’t the committee just die!”
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From then on, each of his days begins and ends with therapy. Painful stretching followed by guided exercises and weight lifting that seem specifically designed to cause him the greatest amount of pain.
“The healing agents can only do so much,” says his physical therapist—a deep-voiced bodybuilder with the unlikely name of Kenny. “The rest has to come from you.”
He is convinced this therapist enjoys watching him suffer.