“I don’t know,” I said, confused. “Maybe all little girls look alike. I believe you reminded me of someone...but I don’t know who exactly.”
“This is strange. People who have been done never remember anything. I should warn you that I like puzzles. I spend all nights solving them. I call them fuzzles.”
“Then we are alike.”
“What did you say? It’s poor manners to talk to yourself. Even I know this.”
“I said that I, too, spend all nights working on my puzzles.”
“And?”
It may seem strange that I should reveal to a ragged child that I had found myself in a derelict studio with a group of actors who had memorized their roles for so long they had begun to believe they were these characters. I told her that I could not explain my presence in this sprawling studio set in an abandoned terminal
