Suddenly he stopped. He slowly turned around facing the way we’d come.

“What?” I asked.

He cast his eyes about, then said, “There are only three possible ways you could have gotten here. One, someone dropped you off. Two, you walked from here, or three, you came from through that field.”

The field, he refered to was nothing more than a weed infested vaccant lot.

“You couldn’t have come from across the highway, there’s nothing over there but a curb. I doubt you came from this direction either. I think we need to explore that field, but we’re losing light. We’ll do it first thing in the morning.”

“But I….,” I said.

“Come along, dearie. I have a big empty house. I can regale you with my stories, without having to listen to yours,” he chuckled.

We walked, mostly in silence to his house. My head was grasping at wild thoughts, at pieces of things remembered.
Why could I remember somethings and not others. Why was I afraid of the police. Did these camera pieces even belong to me?