Dressed once more, Leva was sitting on the counter of the checkout lane of her store.  Masrabi was sitting next to her, the two adult women sitting on the counter like teen girls in a shopping mall.  Colonel Garret stood a few paces away, considering a shirt in the store’s limited inventory. 

               “When the Security Counsel got wind that Leva Dorm had resurfaced, they didn’t believe it,” explained the Director as she handed over a folder.  The door of the store opened, an older man starting to enter, when the Director told him, “Sorry, we’re closed right now.” 

               “But the sign—” the man tried to argue. 

               “Sir,” said Garret with a traffic-stopping glower.  The man slunk out the door and disappeared. 

               “He’s useful to have around,” Leva said as she looked through the folder. 

               “I bet he’d be a big help on Black Friday,” Masrabi chuckled. 

               “See?  Black Friday,” Leva told her.  “I know what that is.  I have no memory OF Black Friday, of…I don’t know, working on a Black Friday or going shopping on a Black Friday.  But I know what it is.”  She exhaled in frustration and went back to the folder.  She began to pick through the legal documents.  “So this is me.” 

               “This is Leva Dorm,” Masrabi corrected. 

               Beneath the photo was a birth certificate, followed by immunization records.  “My mom’s name was Harriet,” Leva read.  She snickered cynically.  “I remember more about Black Friday than I do my mom.”  She looked up, facing into the distance.  She strained, her eyes squinting, before she surrendered.  “I don’t remember anything about her.” 

               “Well, you don’t have amnesia,” Masrabi assured her.  Leva glanced at her and the Director explained, “This isn’t how amnesia works.  Amnesia affects your ability to create new memories and access some more recent memories.  It doesn’t, you don’t just ‘forget’ who you are.” 

               “That’s the kind of thing that only happens in bad fiction,” Garret said from the jacket rack. 

               “So what does that mean?” Leva asked. 

               “That means this is artificial,” said Masrabi.  “Like your tattoo.”  She reached into Leva’s lap and turned over several papers.  In the middle of the folder was a spy camera photo of a woman riding a man in the middle of a king-sized bed.  In the throes of passion, she was leaning over him.  Taken from behind, the most obvious thing was the woman’s muscular back, a back which held no tattoos. 

               “That’s Leva Dorm,” Masrabi told her. 

               “How did you get this?” she asked.  She turned the photo slightly, trying to see the man on the bed.  “Who is that?” she asked, mostly to herself. 

               “Leva Dorm was a known figure in American politics before the nukes fell,” said the Director.  She glanced back at Garret, then turned to Leva.  “Do you know what Leva Dorm did?” 

               Leva was looking through the sparse collection of records and documents.  All held her name but none of them seemed to say much about her. 

“Leva Dorm murdered over two hundred American politicians,” said Masrabi.  She kept her eyes locked on Leva’s face as she explained, “From California, to Connecticut, and she did it all…in under an hour.”