“Wait!” I called after the old man. He didn’t, so I ran after him, even though my feet pained with every step.
“Please! Can you tell me where the Rialto is?” I waved the stub in his face.
He stopped. He frowned at me, but asked, “What’s it to ya?”
“I don’t know..” I looked at the ground, suddenly embarrassed at how ridiculous my story would sound to passerby. I don’t remember anything.

The man studied my sudden sullenness and decided I had it pretty rough. He pitied me enough to say, “Rialto is on Thornberry and Fifth. Why you have stubs for that place? It’s closed for construction. Been renovatin’ for three months.”

I looked at him in shock. I looked at the stubs, and sure enough, the date said June 24th, months ago.

The fall wind blew leaves between us as if to reiterate the fact that it wasn’t summer anymore. My face relaxed into despair. Where have I been?

“What’s your name?” he queried.
“I…I’ve got to go.”
“Where?” he countered. He was right. I hesitated.
“Come on.”
I had no choice. I followed.