Here and there, pieces of cement or steel structures still stood, like odd abstract sculptures. You would’ve been hard-pressed to identify what they once were.

The area was roped off due to the threat of disease-all those dead bodies bloating in the rancid water. It had taken them months to clean it up-to recover the bodies, salvage what was recoverable, board up, pull down, and cart the rest away. Then came the hand-wringing, soul-searching, and, eventually and inescapably, the finger-pointing. They formed an independent commission to investigate the building of the Aurora Dam, to painstakingly pore over the contractor’s blueprints, the requisition orders, the…

Ring, ring.

The sound of the phone startled me. I was lost in Littleton Flats of fifty years ago; suddenly the here and now was demanding to be acknowledged.

I picked up.

“Tom Valle?”

“Yes. Who’s this?” The ringing had restarted the pile driver in my head. Pound… pound… pound…

“John Wren. You called me?” he said, in a tone of voice that sounded vaguely accusatory.

“Yes, that’s right. Thank you for getting back to me.”

“No problem,” Wren said.

For a moment, I wasn’t sure how to proceed with the conversation.

How are you feeling these days, John? Still howling at the moon?

He continued the conversation for me. He asked about Hinch.

“He’s fine,” I said, then corrected myself. “Actually, no, he’s not fine. His wife, she’s sick again.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Yeah.”

Silence.

“So, what do you want?” he said.

“The Aurora Dam Flood. Hinch said you tried to do a story on it.”

“The flood? Uh-huh, that’s right.”

“What happened?”

“Not much.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It was hard to get people to talk about it. Most of the people weren’t even around back then.”

“So you couldn’t find anyone?”

“I didn’t say that. I said it was hard. Why are you doing a story on the Aurora Dam Flood?”

“The same reason you did-893 people died.”

“It was 892. You’re forgetting the little girl.”

“Right. The little girl.”

“I met her,” he said. “She’s still around.”

“In Littleton?”

“San Diego. I tracked her down. She was my first interview.”

“How did it go?”

“Okay. For someone who was 3 years old when it happened, she had an amazing memory.” I heard a match light, the sound of Wren inhaling. “There was a little problem with what she remembered.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean she remembered some very imaginative things about that day.”

“Imaginative?”

“If you think a ship of space robots rescuing her out of the water happens every day, then no, it wasn’t imaginative.”

“Space robots?”

“That’s right. Space robots.”

“Well, you said so yourself. She was 3 years old at the time.”

“Uh-huh. Of course, some of the stuff she remembered was half-believable. It’s the National Enquirer stuff I had a tough time with.”

“You mean, there were things besides the space robots?”

“Right. Beside the space robots. There was a lot about that day…” His voice drifted off.

“Like?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Tom Valle. You have the same name as that… fraud… you know the one I’m talking about; you must get it all the time. Tough being in the same business, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, tough.”

“Ever think about changing your name?”

“No.”

“Good for you. Why change your name because someone else pissed on it, right?”

“Right.”

“What happened to him? Didn’t that guy go to jail?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“I could’ve sworn he went to jail. He deserved it.”

“I’m Tom Valle,” I said.

“I know.”

“No, the Tom Valle you’re talking about. The one who didn’t go to jail.”

“I know,” he repeated. “I checked you out when I got your message. I was wondering if you were going to tell me.”

“Well, I’ve told you.”

“To tell you the truth-we are truth-telling here, right-I’m kind of surprised you haven’t changed your name. I’m more surprised you’re back working for a newspaper. Even if it’s in Mayberry. Hinch knows, I guess?”

“Yes.”

“Good for him. Is this an experiment in rehabilitative journalism?”

“You’d have to ask him.”

“Maybe I should do that. I mean, it’s kind of like letting a child molester back into the classroom, isn’t it?”

“It’s old news. I’ve paid my court-ordered debt to society. Honest. Why don’t we drop it? I just wanted to know if you had any information on…”

“It’s your debt to journalism I’m concerned about,” he interrupted me. “You can’t repay that debt. People like you come along, it leaves a stink on all of us. It breaks the sacred bond. Makes us all look like tabloid writers,” he said, his voice rising. “You were legitimate. The real deal. You got to where the rest of us all hoped we could get. Even if we couldn’t. You got the average Joe thinking, maybe it’s all bullshit. Reality TV-phony baloney, all made up. That’s why I called you back. I wanted to tell you that in person.”

I sat there and took it without hanging up.

Maybe because he was still a little crazy, even if he was still right. You can be crazy and right, can’t you? Or maybe it was because it had been a while, a long while, since someone had laid it out in all its awful majesty. The day I’d attempted to slink out of the office with a carton of my meager possessions, skirting malevolent stares and blatant cold shoulders, a few self-appointed avengers managed to corner me in the hall and apply a full nelson of journalistic indignation. One of them was my drinking partner, the one who’d knifed that quaint message into my desk. I lie, therefore I am. I’d taken their diatribe just as I took Wren’s now-I didn’t duck into the elevator, make a mad dash for the stairs, or take a swing at them. I listened, as stoically as Chuck Connors when they sliced the epaulets off his Calvary uniform and kicked him out of Fort Apache at the beginning of Branded. Part of it was because of Dr. Payne’s admonitions to own up. Part of it was because I deserved it. Part of it was because I thought if I took it from them, maybe I wouldn’t have to take it from him. The man down the hall whom I’d personally destroyed. The one who would be thrown out of the fort weeks later and never let back in. The one I called up when I got filthy drunk and said not one word to.

“So, you’re, what’s the word-reformed these days?”

“I wasn’t an alcoholic. I made up stories. I’ve stopped.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“I’m curious about this story. The Aurora Dam Flood.”

“So you’ve said.”

“That’s why I called you. I was wondering if you knew anything about the death toll? If all the bodies were actually accounted for?”

“Accounted for how?”

“If anyone who supposedly died in the flood-if they ever just showed up later?”

Silence.

“The thing is,” he said, “I don’t think the laws of journalistic courtesy apply to you.”

“I think someone who was supposed to have died in the flood didn’t. I think he popped up recently to say hi to his 100-year-old mom. I think it may have been the same person who burned up in a car crash later with someone else’s wallet in his pocket. I don’t know this for sure-I think it’s possible. I’m trying to connect the dots.”

I heard the tap, tap, tap of a cigarette against ashtray.

“What are you asking me for-help? How? You want me to look for my notes? Is that what you’re asking me?”

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

“It isn’t too much trouble. If I wanted to. I don’t. Not for you.”

I heard the impatience in his voice now, the implicit desire to get off the phone.

“Maybe that’s how I repay the debt,” I said.