Black River Falls by Jeff Hirsch(22)

10


WHEN WE FOUND Greer, I’m pretty sure she was having second thoughts about returning my knife. I couldn’t blame her—the whole setup was pretty weird.

He was sitting in a small meadow halfway between camp and the reservoir. It was empty except for two straight-backed chairs facing each other a few feet apart. Greer sat in one of them with his eyes closed, his hands resting lightly on his thighs, taking slow, deep breaths.

Beside him there was a stack of books and an open cardboard box. Inside was a yo-yo, a pennywhistle, a baseball, a set of drumsticks, three large stuffed animals, a tape recorder, and multiple stacks of note cards covered with strings of words or pictures copied from the library.

“Greer just, uh . . . he takes this whole thing pretty seriously. Have a seat.”

She must have decided it wasn’t an elaborate trap, because she marched out into the meadow and deposited herself in the chair across from him. A minute or two passed. Then two more.

“Um . . . Greer? Buddy?”

He held up one finger, then rolled his neck in circles until it crackled. Who would have guessed that a master showman was trapped deep within his old scowling exterior?

Greer’s eyes popped open. He rummaged in the box for a notebook and pencil and held them out to me. I took them and retreated to a spot by the trees. Taking notes on these sessions was my job.

He loudly cleared his throat, then sat forward in his chair, directing every iota of his attention on the green-haired girl.

“Has your nose been running?” he asked. “Are your eyes itchy?”

She looked at me.

I shrugged.

“Um. Maybe a little bit?”

“Any difficulty breathing? A cough? Weakness in your elbows, knees, or ankles?”

“No.”

He popped out of his chair and began a series of slow revolutions around the girl, studying her from every angle as if she were a prized horse.

“Good muscle tone,” he said. “Broad shoulders. Smile for me?”

What she managed was nearer to a grimace, but it was close enough.

“Straight teeth. No piercings of any kind. No visible tattoos. Hair is recently dyed and cut. Eyebrows indicate her natural color is brown.” He reached out and tipped her head back into the sun. “A light, honey brown.”

I struggled not to roll my eyes as I wrote. “Hair the color of honey. Got it.”

Greer dropped to his knees and took both her hands.

“Small calluses on the fingertips of her left hand. Nails are short. Not cut, though. They look chewed. No indications of nail polish. No rings.”

His eyes fixed on the key. He glanced over his shoulder. “Is it normal for people to wear these as jewelry?”

I shook my head. He turned back to the girl and reached for the key, but she smacked his hand away before he could touch it.

“Interesting,” he said. “Take off your shoes, please.”

“Why?”

“It is vitally important that I examine your toes.”

The girl crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. Perhaps realizing that discretion was the better part of valor, Greer backed off. He stood across from her, still staring intently, his chin balanced on his fist.

“What do you think?” he asked me.

I went over my notes. It wasn’t a lot to go on. “I guess we do the whole thing.”

Greer nodded solemnly. “Agreed.”

He returned to his chair and pulled the cardboard box and note cards to him. Greer had tests designed for older kids and younger kids. Boys and girls. He flipped through the box, selected a packet, and laid it in his lap.

“Now! There are a few different types of memory—”

“Card went over that already.”

He turned and glowered at me. I laughed. He hated having his thunder stolen.

“Okay, well, what we’re going to do is try and get a sense of what kind of person you are by seeing what’s in your procedural and semantic memory.”

“I thought semantic memory was common knowledge type stuff. Stuff everybody knows.”

“It is,” I chimed in. “But what you’ve got in there depends on where you grew up and how. Like if I’d asked a kid from China who Superman was, they wouldn’t necessarily know since he’s not a big part of their culture.”

“Right,” Greer said. “An infected person who studied, like, birds all their life would be able to identify more birds than an infected person who hadn’t. Someone who studied math would have absorbed more math.”

“And doing this will help you figure out who I am.”

“Exactly.”

“So how will you—”

“Think fast!”

Greer scooped up the baseball and chucked it at her. She didn’t even flinch. The ball sailed past her and into the trees.

“Interesting.” He held up a card with pictures of Lebron James, Derrick Jeter, and Serena Williams on it. “Who are these people?”

“No idea.”

“How many players are there on a football team?”

“Uh . . .”

“Don’t think, just answer.”

“Eight?”

“Finish this sentence: ‘We’ve got spirit, yes we do, we’ve got spirit—’”