Tuesday morning, Dr. Ellison was not alone, he walked in with a man in a gray suit, briefcase, and the kind of eyes that missed nothing. Late 50s, to Jon's house.
“Mr. Marsh,” Dr. Ellison said. “This is Dr. Varela. He’s a neurologist out of Stanford. He specializes in dissociative amnesia and medication-resistant gaps.”
Jon nodded. Shook his hand. “Jon.”
“Dr. Varela,” he said. “May I?”
He didn’t wait. Started the exam right there. Lights in Jon's eyes. Pressure on his temples. Questions about memory, dreams, stress.
Kara sat on the couch, quiet. She’d insisted on being there. Nancy stood by the door like a guard.
After twenty minutes, Varela sat back. Ellison looked at him.
Varela tapped his pen on his notebook. “Mr. Marsh, your condition is rare. It’s not classic dissociative amn
