Warden makes him hesitate. It isn’t a name he quite associates with himself, though it floats through his memories: emblazoned on a fine paper invitation, spoken by a tape player. Indubitably, Warden. There’s an admonishment in her tone, something telling him to slow down, back up, start from the beginning.

The beginning.

Do you know me?

“I would know you blindfolded, Camilla Hect.”

He takes back the canteen and hands her a handkerchief, slightly clammy from his pocket.

“Be careful. There’s a bit of a trick to it, when you feel a memory might surface. You have to let it float away. The best you can do is make note of the trigger.”