Time, we believe, moves linearly. From one event to another, cause leads to effect. But memory is anything but linear. Rather, it builds on itself in a great spiraling web, each idea leading to three others, which branch into an interconnected labyrinth of recollection.
I tell you this so that you will understand. Understand what is to come, understand what has happened, and understand what I mean when I say: I was lost in my own mind.
Mercifully, we can start at the beginning.
My father was a locksmith. His face is one of the first things to return to me. Round and broad, enough of a beard to prove his age, enough of a smile to prove his youth. He taught me everything he could about tumblers and keys, about the fine metal teeth and detailed mechanisms in every important door.
But his
