He walks past an electronics store with half a dozen TVs pointing at him, some displaying TV shows he doesn’t recognize, and some displaying him as he walks past them, a camera sending back a live feed. He walks past bookstores, shoe stores, a bank, a confectionary shop, jewelry stores, a sports store, stationary stores, a toy store with a giant stuffed pig in a tuxedo on display in the window. He reaches a supermarket with aisles full of sugary foods and bored-looking people. He buys a bottle of water and a sandwich and a SIM card. The girl at the checkout asks if he’s having a good day, and rather than telling her the truth he tells her it’s going well, then asks how her day is going. She tells him it’s also going fine, and he guesses it is for her because he didn’t wake up in her house earlier. When he heads back to the mall exit he passes the shops in the reverse order, the only difference is the TVs on display are now showing the news, and on the news is a picture of him, Jerry Grey. . . .

You are Jerry Grey.

“The author who wrote under the pseudonym Henry Cutter . . .”

You are Henry Cutter.

“. . . has disappeared from the nursing home . . .”

You live in a nursing home.

“. . . he was committed to after the murder of Sandra Grey, his wife . . .”

You murdered your wife.

“. . . last year. Grey is suffering from Alzheimer’s and is likely to be lost and in a very confused state, and if spotted the police should be called immediately.”

He heads to the sporting store he passed a minute earlier. He spends half of his remaining cash on an overpriced rugby cap (go All Blacks!) and tugs it tightly over his head and tucks the front of it down a little. From there he heads to the bathrooms and finds an empty stall and locks the door and sits inside. On the back of the door somebody has written at the top Damien is awesome, and below that people have written other things, reminding Jerry of the comment sections online, a long list starting with That’s because Damien has a vagina and ending with Fuck the world. He opens the packet with the SIM card and slots the card into Fiona Clark’s phone. He starts to call Hans and straightaway there’s a problem. He has no idea what Hans’s number is. Why would he? He hasn’t remembered anybody’s number in a while now, and not because of the dementia, but because his smartphone has remembered everything for him for several years now. He’s lost the habit of committing numbers to memory, and maybe that’s where all of this started. Is this what he’s done the other times he’s escaped the nursing home? Found his way to a phone not knowing how to call for help?

In this day and age there has to be a way, doesn’t there? A goddamn way of calling somebody! How difficult can it be? He bangs the palm of his hand into the side of his head. Come on! Those numbers are in there somewhere!

Calm down, Jerry. The voice of reason. The voice of Henry Cutter, who wrote the most unreasonable things until a ghost had to start writing them for him. The numbers may not be in there, but what about emails?

He’s right. Jerry hasn’t used email in a long time, but if he can access his account then he can email Hans. He uses the phone to go online, and he has to concentrate, really concentrate to remember his own email address so he can log in, letting his fingers roam over the phone, being guided by muscle memory, which he manages to do, the address coming to him, and back in the day—the day of Sane Jerry—he used the same password for everything. In the password field he types Frankenstein. Five seconds later he has access to his account. There are over eleven hundred unread emails. He doesn’t read any, and is about to compose one of his own to Hans when he remembers that not only does he have access to his emails, but also to an online address book. Hans’s number is there.

He makes the call. The whole bathroom smells like wet dog and bleach. Hans doesn’t answer. He leaves a message. He thinks about what other options he has. He looks back through his contacts and Eva’s number is in there. Could he call her? He decides to give it a few minutes in case Hans calls back, which is exactly what happens. He answers the call.

“It’s me,” Hans says. “Sorry I didn’t answer, but I never do if I don’t recognize the number.”

“I’m in trouble,” Jerry says, the words falling out of him, the sense of relief almost overwhelming. Suddenly he is no longer alone in this.

“I know,” Hans says.

“No,” Jerry says, “you have no idea.”

“Eva called me earlier, plus now it’s on the news and—”

“It’s worse than that,” Jerry says. “Can you come and get me? Please? I really need help. I’m at a mall.”

“Which one?”

“It’s . . .” he says, and he knows the name of the mall, it’s on the tip of his tongue. “I can’t think straight.”

“Go and find a security guard, or the mall management office and tell them who you are. You can wait there while—”

“I can’t do that,” Jerry says, shaking his head.

A pause for a few seconds from Hans’s end of the phone, and then, “What is it you’re not telling me?”

Jerry stares down at the bag with the sandwich and the bottle of water he bought earlier. “I’ll tell you when you get here. I’ll go out front and see what mall it is and I’ll call you back.”

“What’s happened, Jerry?”

“I’ll tell you when you get here. I’ll call you back.”

“Just stay on the line, Jerry.”

He stays on the line. He walks out of the bathroom and into the river of people carrying books and DVDs and clothes, some pushing strollers, some pushing shopping carts, and he walks to the same entrance he came through earlier. When he’s outside he turns around and there in big letters is the name, and he feels stupid for having forgotten it. He tells Hans, and Hans tells him to stay exactly where he is, and that he’ll be there in ten minutes.

Jerry hangs up and tucks the phone into his pocket. He opens up the bottle of water and drinks a quarter of it while staring out at the cars, all while staying exactly where he said he would stay. He’s opening the sandwich packet when it hits him.

He’s left the bag with the towel and the knife back in the bathroom.

He is desperate to start running, but restrains himself as to not draw attention. There are so many shops, so many ways to turn, so many people around him as he walks. He can’t figure out how to get back to the bathroom, not right away, and by the time he does his ten minutes are up and Hans is ringing him. He opens the bathroom door and goes to the stall where he sat earlier. It’s empty. He looks at the back of the door to make sure it’s the same stall. Fuck the world. The bag with the towel and the knife has gone.

W MINUS THREE

You went wandering again today, and because of that Sandra considered keeping you in tonight and not sending you on the bachelor’s party. You didn’t really care one way or the other, but in the end she decided she wanted you to go. Probably so she could get you out of the house for obvious reasons. You went along and spoke when spoken to and didn’t cause any kind of scene. No doubt the party became more raucous once the old-timers had gone, that Rick and his friends drunk their way along to a strip joint, but for you it was just dinner and no wine but water, some overcooked chicken, and a soggy salad. You sat there pretending not to notice the whispered comments and not-so-subtle nods in your direction. You were the guy with Alzheimer’s, and to them that made you a joke. It made you a joke because they would never be like you, the same way you used to think you would never be like this, and what could be funnier than your mate’s father-in-law losing his mind at forty-nine and occasionally going off to Batshit County for long walks in Batshit Park? You were home by ten and are keeping your promise to ride the sober train all the way to Eva’s wedding.