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his name. We tried that for several days, but there was no reaction. We tried
every trick in the book as far as hypnosis goes--clapping our hands in different
ways right in front of his face. We played music he knew, read his schoolbooks
aloud to him, let him catch a whiff of his favorite foods. We even brought in his
cat from home, one he was particularly fond of. We used every method we could
think of to bring him back to reality, but nothing worked.
About two weeks into this, when we'd run out of ideas and were exhausted and
discouraged, the boy woke up on his own. Not because of anything we'd done.
Without warning, as if the time for this had been decided in advance, he came to.
--Did anything out of the ordinary take place that day?
Nothing worth mentioning. It was a day like any other. At ten a. m. the
nurse came to draw a blood sample. Right after that he choked a bit, and some of
the blood spilled on the sheets. Not much, and they changed the sheets right away.
That was about the only thing different that day. The boy woke up about a half
hour after that. Out of the blue he sat up in bed, stretched, and looked around
the room. He had regained consciousness, and medically he was perfectly fine.
Soon, though, we realized he'd lost his entire memory. He couldn't even remember
his own name. The place he lived in, his school, his parents' faces--it was all
gone. He couldn't read, and wasn't even aware this was Japan or the Earth. He
couldn't even fathom the concept of Japan or the Earth. He'd returned to this
world with his mind wiped clean. The proverbial blank slate.
Chapter 9
When I come to I'm in thick brush, lying there on the damp ground like some log. I
can't see a thing, it's so dark.
My head propped up by prickly brambles, I take a deep breath and smell
plants, and dirt, and, mixed in, a faint whiff of dog crap. I can see the night
sky through the tree branches. There's no moon or stars, but the sky is strangely
bright. The clouds act as a screen, reflecting all the light from below. An
ambulance wails off in the distance, grows closer, then fades away. By listening
closely, I can barely catch the rumble of tires from traffic. I figure I must be
in some corner of the city.
I try to pull myself together and pick up the scattered jigsaw puzzle pieces
of me lying all around. This is a first, I think. Or is it? I had this feeling
somewhere before. But when? I search my memory, but that fragile thread snaps. I
close my eyes and let time pass by.
With a jolt of panic I remember my backpack. Where could I have left it? No
way can I lose it--everything I own's inside. But how am I going to find it in the
dark? I try to get to my feet, but my fingers have lost all their strength.
I struggle to raise my left hand--why is it so heavy all of a sudden?--and
bring my watch close to my face, fixing my eyes on it. The digital numbers read
11:26. May 28. I think of my diary. May 28... good--so I haven't lost a day. I
haven't been lying here, out cold, for days. At most my consciousness and I parted
company for a few hours. Maybe four hours, I figure.
May 28... a day like any other, the same exact routine. Nothing out of the
ordinary. I went to the gym, then to the Komura Library. Did my usual workout on
the machines, read Soseki on the same sofa. Had dinner near the station. The fish
dinner, as I recall. Salmon, with a second helping of rice, some miso soup, and
salad. After that... after that I don't know what happened.
My left shoulder aches a little. As my senses return, so does the pain. I
must have bumped into something pretty hard. I rub that part with my right hand.
There's no wound, or swelling. Did I get hit by a car, maybe? But my clothes
aren't ripped, and the only place that hurts is that spot in my left shoulder.
Probably just a bruise.
I fumble around in the bushes, but all I touch are branches, hard and