About half way through the boxes, I started noticing memories that were incomplete.

All the memories I had seen up to that point, even though I was just skimming, were complete, unbroken scenes. But after that, there were memories that jumped, like a badly edited film.

“Why do you think that is?” I asked her.

“I don’t know,” she said, sounding curious. But there was something wrong. The more I questioned her about memories where that happened, the more nervous she seemed.

“Come here,” I said, walking over to a table in the middle of the room. “Have a seat.” She sat down, with me beside her.

“Mind if I play dime-store psychologist for a minute?” She looked at me, hesitantly, but nodded. “I noticed these jumps starting with the memories of that poor Lt. Donaldson, the guy from 2181. Did you go from him dying in those mines directly to that hooker in New Orleans?”

She looked frightened. “No,” she said, her voice shaking. “There was one life between them. In London. Near the White Chapel district in 1888.”