stated criteria, from her height right through to the occasional hand-rolled cigarettes she smoked by the fire escape?
The fact is, we didn’t know if this was what had happened or not. But it fed into the obsessive mythology we had already created around Tim Scott. So that was what we chose to believe.
14
You find a coat, then—remembering the disgust in the eyes of the Uber driver who brought you home—add a hat, scarf, and dark glasses.
At the front door, you hesitate. Tim didn’t actually forbid you from going out, but he certainly warned you against doing it too soon.
Screw it, you think. You can’t hide away at home forever.
As you reach for the door handle you catch sight of yourself in the mirror. You look ridiculous. You take off the scarf.
Once through the gates you turn right, heading south. When the sky doesn’t fall in, you start to feel less tense. A jogger runs past with a dog on a leash. Both ignore you. A young Latino gives you a brief glance, but it’s one of appreciation, nothing more. A child in a stroller smiles at you tentatively. His mother, chatting on her phone, doesn’t even look in your direction.
Mission Street seems different—cleaner, smarter than it used to be; there’s no sign of the guy, brain fried on crack, who used to drag an electric toaster around by its cord and talk to it as if it were a pet. But the phone shop’s still there, next to the Korean restaurant, its tiny window piled high with phones and SIM packs. The handwritten sign is still there too, almost crowded out by IPHONES JAILBROKEN and an illuminated dot-matrix sign flashing LAPTOP REPAIRS.
Inside the shop a nerdy hipster with an elaborate beard leans over the counter, carefully picking a broken screen out of a phone with tweezers.
“Hi,” you say, a little nervously.
“With you in a sec,” he says without looking up.
You wait for him to finish. He has a mass of very curly black hair. You find yourself gazing at it, fascinated by the way it moves.
“How can I help?” he says at last, pushing the phone to one side.
“It’s this.” You produce the iPad. “I’ve forgotten the passcode.”
He takes it. “Sure you didn’t steal it?”
“Of course not. It’s mine.” You don’t seem to be able to blush, which is good.
“Just kidding.” He presses the POWER button and looks at the screen. “Why don’t you restore it from the backup?”
“I forgot to set a backup,” you say lamely.
“Hmm.” You can tell he doesn’t believe you. “Well, if it is yours, there’s a way of getting access to some of the apps.”
He presses the HOME button. For a moment nothing happens. Then an electronic voice says, “What can I help you with?”
“Siri, open the dangle-dally app,” the young man says.
“You don’t seem to have an app named dangle-dally. We could see if the App Store has it,” Siri says helpfully.
“Sure, let’s do that.”
As if by magic, the App Store screen appears. The young man taps the button again, and there’s the home page.
“That’s amazing…What was that you just downloaded?”
“Nothing. Just a nonexistent application to fool Siri.” He looks at the screen again and frowns. “Which is not to say your problems are over. This iPad’s been wiped. Those are just the default apps you’re seeing there.”
“Oh,” you say, disappointed. “Isn’t there anything else we can try?”
“I could run a recovery program. It’ll take at least twenty-four hours, though. Come back in a couple of days and we’ll see what we’ve got.”
You don’t like leaving the iPad, but you don’t really have a choice. “Okay.” Reluctantly, you turn to go.
While you’ve been talking, a middle-aged couple has come into the shop. You’ve been vaguely aware of them whispering behind you, the woman’s voice rising in urgency. Now she says suddenly, “It is her. I’m going to ask.” Putting her hand on your arm, she says, “Excuse me, aren’t you Abbie Cullen-Scott?”
“Yes…Why?” you say, surprised.
“Oh my God! And you’re okay?”
“I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”
“My goodness! And do you mind…I mean, it’s none of my business, but—what happened?”
“What do you mean?” Then you realize. They think you’re the old Abbie, somehow come back from the dead.
“I—well, I don’t actually remember…” you begin.
“You lost your memory!” She turns to her husband triumphantly. “You see? I told you. I always said it wasn’t him.”
“I thought you said it was.” Her husband barely sounds interested. He looks at the man behind the counter. “We’ve come