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Oh. Hello. Sorry about that. I'll just be on my way...
Sarah Bennett? Yes, that's me. How did you know my name?
Gabriel Mather... sorry, the name doesn't ring any bells. You say we went to high school together? Was I in any classes with you? I—I don't remember you. I can't. I'm sorry, so, so, sorry, but I just can't. Let me check my book.
This book is where I've put down everything that I can't remember. It has the pictures and names of every high school classmate and teacher of mine, their relationships to me, things like that. I've been building it up for the past eight years now, ever since I moved to Boston.
Because I can't remember anything, you see. Four years of my life, completely erased from my mind. Sometimes I do get flashes—a ghost of a memory, a teacher's voice talking about algebra, a glimpse of someone's hair or shoes or eyes. I write those down immediately so they don't disappear. My thoughts have a habit of disappearing.
I've checked with the few people I can recall—Amy, Jessica, Becker, do you remember them?—and they all say the same thing. None of them can remember more than the most irrelevant details about high school. We don't know why that is, but we're working on it, and trust me—when we find out, whoever's responsible is going to have a lot to answer for.
But you know. You recognized me, and you can remember. Gabriel Mather... that's impossible. Or at least very, very improbably.
Can you remember what happened? Do you know who did this to us and why they had to? What was going on, back at the Academy? What made it too dangerous to be remembered?
Oh, I'm sorry. You probably think I'm being paranoid. Maybe I am.
Tell me something about high school, anything at all. Tell me about yourself, who you were to me back then, what you've done since. Tell me something that will make me remember you.
Go on. I'm listening. And I'm writing it all down in my book so I won't forget again.