ARRIVAL (ERA 1)

4 | Reassignment

We met back in the briefing room with Tin Smyth andDr. Bishop, where we were introduced to two Committee of Refugee Integration Services board members: Katherine Kline and Charles Caine.

The C.R.I.S. is responsible for the refugees' integration into this new society. It consists of 10 members, all of whom rotate turns representing refugees and overseeing the Evaluations. Board Members Kline and Caine, along with my voucher Tin Smyth, will oversee my hearing. Of course, I have no idea what any of the aforementioned actually means.

Kline, a grouchy woman nearing 60, is tall and slender and wears a navy suit. She shook my hand with caution and judgment, and never smiled, not even once throughout the entire session. Her only response to my questions consisted of head nods and rapid blinking. She sat there blankly staring, a villainous predator.

Caine wasn't so much rude as he was disinterested. He is a short stout man with dark gray hair, probably about 50. He was humdrum and boring, but did, however, answer my questions with feigned enthusiasm. He got points for pretending to care.

The Inquiry didn't take as long as I had expected. Anna has barely spoken since her arrival, which was just one day before my own. She didn't ask any questions, but that was as I expected. As for me, a few questions have been answered, but several still remain.

I was in an accident, most likely a plane crash or an automobile wreck. I died or almost died, I think. Now, I am a refugee in some town called Kemper, most likely somewhere outside the U.S. by the looks of it. I have no identification so my origin remains a mystery. That's why I'm here. I need to be treated and evaluated before I can be released.

/  /  /

I go down the hall to the examination room where Bishop and her aide prod and poke my skin for what seems like hours. Afterwards, a thin male nurse ushers me to a smaller room with lighter walls and a fresh, antibacterial scent.

Two folders, one red and one blue, rest side-by-side on the table. The red folder has a tiny white sticker that says physiological and the blue folder says psychological. The nurse sits in the chair across from me and folds his arms.

"I will be conducting the psychological testing portion of your pre-evaluation examination," he pauses. "My name is Michael."

I raise my eyes to his and nod in recognition. He has the same tan skin as the nurse upstairs and his features are boyish. Michael cannot be much older than I am, probably 18 at the most. I notice he is waiting for me to reply.

"Hello, Michael."

"This test is a sort of therapy. It's been carefully designed to activate certain chambers of your mind, stimulating memory recovery. It will most likely help you remember some of what you knew before your accident," he pauses again, hesitant.

I nod.

"Your mind and body have been through a traumatic experience. Certain words or sounds, even smells, can act as catalysts. They can trigger our brains to remember things we've either suppressed or buried." He pauses. "Are you following me?"   

"Yes." I nod, again, for him to continue, though something tells me a smell isn't going to stir up my dormant memories.

"There are no guarantees but chances are you will regain the small things –your age and your name, maybe even your birthday. This is only the first session. After time you will begin to remember what you look like and where you used to live –and what year you, uh, think it is. Are you ready for this?"

"Yes." I manage a courteous smile. So this is therapy.

I will try anything to remember my name or how old I am. I was told during the primary testing in the medical examination room that I'm estimated to be age 15. Sounds about right. I don't feel any younger or older.