"Well. It's a strange thing," I explained. "With each birth your body starts out fresh and mostly blank, but then you print yourself on it over time. You hold onto old experiences: injuries, injustices, and great love affairs, too." I glanced up at Sophia. "And you hold them in your joints and your organs and wear them on your skin."

"You do." She was giving me that same look of indulgence, but it was less confident.

"We all do."

"Because we live again and again?"

"Most of us."

"Not all of us?" Her indulgence showed more signs of genuinely wanting to know.

"Some live only once. Some a very few times. And some just go on and on and on."

"Why?"

I put my head back on my pillow. "That is hard to explain. I'm not sure I really know."

"And you?"

"I've lived many times."

"And you remember them?"

"Yes. That's where I'm different than most people."

"I'll say. And what about me?" She looked like she wasn't going to believe the answer, but slightly feared it anyway.

"You've also lived many times. But your memory is just average."

"Clearly." She laughed. "Have you known me for all of them?"

"I've tried. But no, not all."

"And why can't I remember?"

"You can more than you think. Those memories are in there somewhere. You act on them in ways you don't realized. They determine how you respond to people, the things you love and the things you fear. A lot of our irrational behavior would look more rational if you could see it in the context of your whole long life."

It was amazing the things I was will to tell her if she was willing to listen, and she was. I touched the hem of her sleeve. "I know enough about you to know you love horses and you probably dream about them. You probably dream of the desert sometimes and maybe taking a bath outdoors. Your nightmares are usually about fire. You have problems with your voice and your throat sometimes--that was always your weak spot . . ."

Her face was rapt. "Why?"

"You were strangled a long time ago."

Her alarm was a mix of real and pretend. "By whom?"

"Your husband."

"Awful. Why did I marry him?"

"You didn't have a choice."

"And you knew this man?"

"He was my brother."

"Long dead, I hope."

"Yes, but bearing a grudge through history, I fear."

I could see by her face, she was trying to figure out where to put all of this. "Are you a psychic?" she asked.

I smiled and shook my head. "Although most psychics, if they are any good, do have some memory of old lives. And so do most of the people we consider insane. An asylum is about the densest concentration of people with partial memory you will ever find. They get flashes and visions, but usually not in the right order."

She looked at me sympathetically, wondering if that's where I belonged. "Is that what you do?"

"No. I remember everything."