Dany is so happy to be alive, so graced by the sun, that an hour passes before she thinks to look at the intersection. From a city block away, she can read the street names painted on the sign, can see the least flaw in the lines of paint.
She’s never been here before, can’t say what city she’s in.
Still, glancing at the names on the street signs, she feels that familiar tickle of recollection – and yes, she knows she’s seen those street names before – but instead of pulling up an image from the archive, a map, there is a long whirring moment that should be followed by a click, but isn’t. In place of razor-sharp memory, there is déjà vu.
And then it’s déjà done. The memory gone. Zeroed out.
It’s as if a door has begun to close – on the vault of memory, taking who she is with it – a
