Mark Cristiansohn, who's recently become an amnesiac, discovers that it was no accident that he can't remember.
"How are you feeling, Mr. Cristiansohn?"
Cristiansohn slowly opened his eyes, mildly surprised that they'd been closed. He didn't recall drifting off. He propped himself up on his elbows, glancing around. How interesting, he thought to himself, I don't remember coming here. How do you suppose I managed to get to a hospital room?
"Mr. Cristiansohn? Can you hear me?"
He jerked his head to see a man in white at the foot of the bed, peering at him intently. Cristiansohn tilted his head in curiosity. "You're talking to me?"
"I was, yes. How do you feel?"
Cristiansohn shrugged. "Alright, I guess," he answered politely. "I'm not sure how to compare the way I feel now to the way I felt, oh, I don't know, a while ago..."
The other man's brow wrinkled with concern. "Why's that?"
"I can't remember, to be honest."
"Really? You can't remember?"
He shook his head. "No sir."
"Do you remember your name?"
"Ah, that I do remember: Mark Cristiansohn. Mark Z Cristiansohn," he added with a smile. He'd always been amused by his middle initial, he certainly remembered that.
The man nodded. "Do you remember where you live? Your occupation? Where you are now? What happened an hour ago?"
Cristiansohn bit his lip, falling silent for a moment. Finally he replied, "No, I'm sorry, I don't remember any of those things."
The man nodded. Cristiansohn noticed that he kept a somber expression, but there was a delighted glint in his razor-sharp eye.