There is nothing. Blackness. A memory? No. Maybe an echo of a memory giving an impression of green light. Falling through a green glowing mist. Nothing more.

And I’m here, now. All is stillness and blackness. I am sitting down, in the dark.

I had been falling. But I didn’t land here, didn’t crash.

Just a transition.

Falling. Green.

Sitting. Black.

And a sound. There is a sound. A quiet rushing. Wind. Moving, but slightly.

For how long, I don’t know. Years? Seconds?

I inhale deep into my chest, and that makes a sound as well. I push out my lips and exhale. A different sound, like a whistle that’s not quite a whistle. I feel my lips vibrate. My hands rest on my knees. When I pull them back, I know I am naked. Skin against skin. When I direct my attention to other parts of my body, I can feel the fabric of a cushioned seat against my buttocks. I move my feet, just barely, side to side over a cool, smooth surface. The word linoleum rolls over in my mind like a dead fish on the surface of a pond. I don’t know what that word means. Linoleum. I detect a rise of panic, like I am about to slip under the surface of that pond. Then it passes.

Linoleum. Of course. A solidified oil and resin flooring material with a burlap backing.

But I think it is not so much linoleum under my feet as ceramic.

I hear a click. Metal on metal. A bolt snapping back, followed by a tiny sound—almost not there at all—of a spring vibrating, singing at a high frequency. It stops. And light creeps into the room. Slow at first, as a door pulls back. Beyond is a bright white space. When the doors stands fully open light floods everything except the silhouetted figure standing in front of me. No. Two figures. One is a woman, I guess, by the lines of her hips. And the other? A man? The woman reaches out and flicks a light switch within the darkened room. The light that comes on over my head illuminates their features. Yes, a man. The other is a man.

They look the same, these youthful angels in white coats. Clean faces, short hair, and long delicate fingers. I am inside a small room, barely large enough to accommodate me and my chair. The floors, the walls, all white. A large light panel overhead. And the wind? I tilt back my head and see a small metal-slatted grill of an air vent. The woman holds a clipboard and she smiles. The young man appears bored, or maybe hungry, and he has an oversized pen in his hand, which, as he leans into my room, reveals itself to be a small flashlight. Without any warning he switches it on and brings it in blindingly close to my face.

The woman’s voice possesses a musical quality.

“You’re looking well.” Her eyes shift to the surface of her clipboard. “Do you know what your name is?”

“Aaaaa,” I begin, but my tongue sticks to my palate. I try again. “Andy.” I feel I should say it with confidence, so I do. But it is a guess.

“Good,” she says, with an encouraging smile. “A good start.”

The man in the white coat moves the light quickly back and forth in a procedural manner directly in front of my eyes.

“Let’s try that again,” the woman says. “Your name. But simple. Just the first syllable.”

“Aaaaa—“

“Oaky, but move your tongue back in your mouth, with a flatter sound, like when you open and say….”

“Aaaaa…. Awwww.” It falls into place. Like a linoleum tile. “August. My name is August.”

This is no guess. I know it to be fact.

“That’s right, August. Very good.”

“It is?” the man says, seemingly surprised. He switched off his flashlight and steps back to glance at the woman’s clipboard. “What do you know, a prodigy.”

She nods at that.

“You’ve made the transition well, August.” She turns toward the man beside her. “Ed, please fetch August something to wear.”

“Well, the pupillary reflex response is fine. If you’re interested.” Ed sounds irritated. He slips his flashlight into a pocket and steps out of sight.

“That man does like his flashlight,” the woman says to me with a bright smile. She bends slightly at the waist, leaning into the doorway. She is slim and well-proportioned. Her white coat fits as it it were tailored for her. I smell a subtle perfume. Something more fruit than floral. Sharp, like guava. “Is there anything you would like to ask me?”

“Am I sick?” Do I feel sick? I can’t tell.

Her face becomes serious.

“Oh, I’m afraid I’m not qualified to answer that.” She brightens. “But I assume you’re just fine.”

“But you’re a doctor?” Isn’t she?

“Oh, not at all. You can call me Valerie. I can see how these outfits could lead one to make certain assumptions.” She laughs. “Actually, neither of the two of us have any medical training. With Ed, it’s kind of a hobby.”

Ed returns with white clothing—cotton trousers and a pull-over shirt—folded neatly into a square. A pair of black slippers on top. He places the clothes on the floor in front of my chair before snapping a lime green plastic bracelet around my wrist. Valerie points to it.

“And now you have a last name,” she says. “Saves putting a strain on your memory.”

Ed turns away from me.

“I don’t know why you waste all this chit chat,” he says to Valerie. “He’ll forget it all in a few minutes, just like the rest. I’m going to check on the other one.”

Valerie watches Ed walk away. She shakes her head.

I slide the bracelet around to read the white printed label. August Mathers, 5813213768.

“You can go ahead and get dressed,” Valerie tells me. She has doubled the intensity of her smile, no doubt to make up for her companion’s rudeness. “It’s not much, and I do apologize. What Ed likes to call going commando, I believe. Eventually, you’ll get something more appropriate once we visit the wardrobe department. I’ll be just out here when you’re ready.”

She turns in the same direction as Ed and leaves the doorway. I fear I might be stiff or dizzy when I stand, but when I do, I feel fine.

After I dress, I stick my head through the doorway and peer out onto a long bright corridor. White acoustical tiles on the ceiling, ivory painted walls, and cream-colored linoleum.

Valerie and Ed stand at the only door other than the one to my tiny room. The two of them hold the hands of a small woman who is about fifty. She wears white like me—her clothing contrasts with her mocha skin. Her short, tightly curled auburn hair is shot through with strands of gray.

As they coax her out, I wonder how old I am. I look at my arm and see pale, unblemished flesh.

“There you go,” Valerie says to the woman once she emerges into the corridor. At the moment she crosses the threshold, I hear a soft hum. The light from that room shuts off and the door begins to close on its own. It clicks shut. A lighted panel beside that door changes from green to red. The hum is gone.

The woman is oblivious to all this. She appears drugged or hypnotized. Is this who Ed spoke of when he went to check on the other one?

Valerie looks at me.

“In or out. Don’t be noncommittal, not like a cat.”

I realize I’m still standing in the doorway. When I step into the corridor, the same thing happens. A soft hum. Lights inside cut out. Door closes. Click. The panel changes from green to red.

The door is highly reflective steel with a black rubber gasket around the edges. This one as well as the other. I touch its metal surface.

“Like an elevator,” I say. But then I think of the sound when it locked shut. “No. A bank vault.”

“It is pretty serious, isn’t it,” Valerie says. “I bet even if you had a sledgehammer or a stick of dynamite, you couldn’t open that door. Not until this time tomorrow.” She tapped at her clipboard. “That’s when our next two visitors will arrive.”

The woman they brought out wears a green bracelet like mine. Her name is Stacy.

“Is she okay?” I ask.

“Our visitors sometimes come to us, well, groggy,” Valerie explains.

“Most all of them,” Ed says, talking to Valerie more than me. “It makes the processing go much smoother.”

“Processing?” I ask. That doesn’t sound good.

“Aren’t you excited about what comes next?” Valerie asks. “Come along.”

She and Ed slowly lead Stacy down the corridor. I follow.

We turn a corner and I see a sign on the wall pointing back the way we came. It reads Arrivals.

This doesn’t feel right. What is this place? Where did I come from? Is all this normal? If I could just remember.

Ed opens two swinging doors and we all pass under a sign for the Processing Lounge. We enter a large bright room with games tables, exercise equipment, and, at the far end, what appears to be a cafeteria. I see about two dozen people. Most of them sit in over-stuffed chairs and sofas staring vacantly into space. A few listlessly flip through magazines. Some, I see, are more animated, though barely, and they play cards or other games. Two women play a game of table tennis.

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Stacy stops in the middle of this lounge and watches the ping pong ball bouncing back and forth with a rhythmic clatter. The game seems to hold no more meaning for her than it would to a squirrel.

Valerie asks: “Do you remember if you play?”

I’m curious if Stacy will answer, and then I realize Valerie is speaking to me.

“No,” I tell her. “I don’t know.” I try and conjure a mental image of myself standing at a table with a net stretched across it while holding a paddle. But I fail. I don’t even know what I look like.

“But do you at least know the rules?”

I nod.

I do. I know the rules. So I do remember things.

Ed nudges Stacy and we continue. I look down at a table where two young men with expressions slightly more lucid than most of the others, play a game of cards. I know instantly they’re playing gin rummy, and I know who is going to win.

But other than my name—which came to me only after a combination of guesswork and some helpful prompting—I know nothing about myself. It’s as if I have no history. Could it be that I don’t? That I just came into being today? But, no. Valerie asked me if I remembered if I played table tennis. So there must have been a me from before, a me who had experiences.

I do not know how to begin to make sense of things. I should be asking questions, but where to even begin.

“We’ve arrived at our first stop,” Valerie says with hushed excitement. She opens a door marked Wardrobe.

“I’ll go check what rooms our newbies have been assigned,” Ed says to Valerie.

She nods and escorts me and Stacy inside a dim room with dark brown walls and matching carpet. A low, wide work table dominates the room. Its white surface is empty. A lamp hangs down over it, the only light source in the room. Two chromium swivel chairs face the table. On the far side sits a black man in a similar chair. His short hair shows streaks of white above his ears and his steel-framed glasses catch the light above. He wears a white turtleneck sweater and black linen trousers.

We three stand facing the man.

“She can take a seat,” the man says of Stacy, “but you—” he leans across the work table looking intently at me “—don’t move a muscle.”

Valerie helps Stacy to sit.

“I like his bearing,” the man says to Valerie. “He’s very much awake. Good, this is how I like to work.” Then to me: “Welcome, Mr. 5813213768, if my records are correct.” His hand moves over a couple of manila folders sitting in front of him.

“He prefers August,” Valerie says. “August, this is Raul. He will be… How do you say it, Raul? Oh, I got it! Your guide on a journey of sartorial discovery.”

Raul smiles. He stands and comes from behind the table. Slowly he walks around me. Peering, nodding, appraising.

“You may sit,” he finally tells me, pointing to the chair he just vacated. I do so.

He perches on the edge of the work table.

“Though I’m no psychic like Saligia Jones and her young protégés,” Raul says, smiling to both Valerie and me, “I do have my gifts of intuition.” He leans in close to me. “Don’t over-think my questions Mr. August 5813213768. Answer with pure automation.”

I nod in response, though I wonder what he means by that psychic statement.

“Perfect.” He takes a deep breath and then turns suddenly to stare intently any me. “Blue or gray?”

I am baffled.

“But I don’t…” I begin. “Am I supposed to—”

“Fast!” Raul cuts me off, his voice comes as a hiss.

“Gray.”

“Snaps or buttons?”

“Buttons.”

“Seams or pleats?”

“Seams.”

“Cotton, wool, or horrible blah polyester?”

“What?”

“No,” Raul whispers. “There are no right or wrong answers.”

“Cotton.”

“Good man. Gingham or paisley?

“Paisley.”

“Pork pie or Stetson?”

“Um, Pie?”

“Burlap or taffeta?”

“Burlap.”

“Taupe?”

“What?”

“Taupe—yes or no?”

“No.”

Raul takes a deep breath. He exhales with a smile and stands. “Excellent. Just excellent.” He turns toward Valerie. “Almost bordering on flashy, our new client. But overall, excellent.”

“I love watching you work!” Valerie blurts out.

“You’re sweet,” Raul says. “It's rare to have a newly arrived contestant come to me so, well, lucid. What a treat!"

“Did you say contestant?” I ask.

“And inquisitive! Usually I make do with those not so responsive—such as Ms. 3007803011.”

“This is Stacy,” Valerie says as she steps behind the silent woman sitting next to me.

At the mention of her name, Stacy lifts her head. Her eyes possess the untroubled glaze of an animal in a zoo.

“Don’t worry, Stacy,” Raul says, his tone soft. “I have an ensemble in mind for you. I will not guarantee it to match your personality, but it will drape with a comfortable fit and be quite presentable.”

“What do you think of that, Stacy?” Valerie leans down to catch her eye, but Stacy’s attention has meandered to some point on the carpet at her feet.

Raul looks back at me. Cocks his head to one side.

“Waist 30. Inseam 34. 34! A tall one! Shoes, 11 … and a half. Torso is, well, a perfect Ricardo Montalbán! I’ll be back in a tick!”

He hops from the table and disappears through a red curtain at the back of the room.

“Isn’t he wonderful?” Valerie says. “He doesn’t even need to use a tape measure. It’s all eyeballed to perfection.”

At that moment the door swings open. A slim man in dress pants and a white shirt enters. He ushers in a young woman wearing a red dress.

“Our processing lounge can be a lively place,” the man says to the young woman. “And this is our wardrobe department.” He nods to Valerie and looks around.

“Raul’s in the back,” Valerie says to them with something of a nervous giggle. “This is August and Stacy. They’re our newest arrivals.” Stacy has shut her eyes, so Valerie speaks to me. “August, this is Michael. He’s an Associate Producer.”

At the mention of the word “arrivals,” the woman in the red dress turns her attention to me and Stacy with obvious curiosity. Michael, however, ignores us.

“You’ve heard the news about Rose, right?” he asks Valerie.

“News?” Valerie asks, turning to Rose. “I only want to hear good news about my favorite trainee.”

“Former trainee,” Michael says.

Valerie excitedly grabs a plastic name tag hanging from around Rose’s neck. “You’ve been promoted!” Valerie throws her arms around the other woman gives her a tight hug. “I was wondering about why you’re dressed so glamorously.”

The woman Rose seems uncomfortable with the attention.

“Ever since the incident last week with that jumper,” Micheal says to Valerie, “it seems many things have changed.”

“Well, that was a tragedy,” Valerie says, her face shifting in a solemn sag. “I never would have guessed poor Connie was such a troubled soul.”

Jumper? So much of what these people say makes no sense.

“Well, it proved advantageous to Rose, here,” Michael says. “A full-fledged Associate Producer. And our newest Reader.”

“That is so wonderful,” Valerie says. The she turns to me. “These are the important people, August. You’ll be seeing more of them during the broadcasts this week.”

“Broadcasts?” I ask. Contestants? Producers? Wardrobe? A jumper? I feel there is nothing stable or familiar to firmly stand upon.

Rose is about to say something to me, but Michael taps her shoulder.

“We should move on,” he says, and they leave the room.

Within seconds, Raul pushes through the curtains carrying two large parcels wrapped in stiff brown paper.

“Did I hear Michael?” he asks Valerie.

“With Rose, who I just learned is our new Reader.”

“That Michael….” Raul places the packages on the work table. He sadly shakes his head. “The man is a fashion travesty. Time and again I’ve suggested he only wear Italian spread collars, but he insists on those dreadful forward points. Makes him look like a fussy thug in a gangster film. By the way, how did Rose look? I decided to dress her in a fit and flare off-the-shoulder in berry red. Size 6.”

“It was perfect!” Valerie gushes, her hand to her throat.

This makes Raul smile. He hands me one of the parcels.

“Here you go, Mr. 5813213768.” The chuckles. “I mean, August. This is all you need for the new you! I suppose Ms. Valerie will escort you to your new apartment.”

“I’m looking forward to seeing our new guests in what you’ve chosen for them,” Valerie says to Raul. With her palms together in front of her chin, she gives the man a bow. Then she turns to me. “It’s not so much an apartment as a room. If you’ll just give me a hand with Stacy, we’ll be on our way.”

I see that Stacy has somehow gotten out of her slippers and is now trying to put them on the wrong feet.

###

We wait at the entrance to my new home. Ed slides a rectangle of stiff paper the size of an index card from a brass frame on the door, and replaces it with a new one that has my number printed on it. 5813213768.

Valerie hands Stacy off to Ed so he can take her to her room and then she opens the door and indicates I should enter.

“They’re all the same,” she tells me in an apologetic tone. “A bit cramped, but you have the lounge whenever you want more space.”

There is a narrow bed, a desk, a chair, a metal locker for a closet, and a bathroom with just a sink and a toilet.

“The communal showers are at the end of the hall,” Valerie says.

I wonder if Stacy is even capable of bathing herself.

“You can keep on the scrubs, or change into the clothes Raul selected. We’re very casual here. But we request you to be in wardrobe an hour before the 7 p.m. broadcast.”

I see from a clock on the wall over the desk that it is almost 12:30. I don’t know if that’s morning or afternoon, but I don’t ask. Instead, I look at the bundle I in my hands—my wardrobe.

“That’s still hours away. Don’t worry. You’ll get the hang of it. Me or Ed, as well as other staff will be around to help you. But now, I have others to look in on. Just make yourself at home. Your new home.”

She turns and puts a hand on the doorknob. She pauses and turns back.

“You’ll no doubt have a visit from our Doctor Lydia.” She laughs. “Well, she’s not a doctor doctor, but, well…I’ll let her explain.”

At that, she leaves me alone, closing the door behind her.

There’s not much to explore in the little room, so I unwrap my clothes and try them on. I don’t know if Raul’s method can successfully discern my true taste in fashion, but at least everything fits. I stand in front of the mirror fastened to the bathroom door and regard the visual impact of the caramel double pleated twill trousers with a burgundy v-neck sweater over a peach Oxford shirt.

The outfit gives me no better idea of the sort of person I am. Nor does the man underneath the clothing.

Who is August Mathers? I have to assume he’s more than just an arbitrary name printed on my wristband.

I peer intently at my reflection, waiting for something to trigger my memory. But nothing does.

I’m tall. But not remarkably so. Slim, but not gangly. I place my age somewhere in the mid-thirties. European descent. My eyes are a grayish green. No facial hair. Not even stubble. On my head, the hair is cut close to the scalp as if with electric clippers—when I shift in the light, I see the distinctive evidence of male pattern baldness.

I smile. I frown. I laugh. Not one expression seems more natural than the other.

I’ve no distinguishing marks, moles, or scars. No tattoos or piercings.

As I glance around the room, I learn I have good, if not perfect vision.

I hear a tap at the door, but before I can doing anything about it, in walks a woman. She also has on a white lab coat, but slightly longer and with more pockets. This thin woman wears her coat with a greater air of importance than Valerie or Ed. She is younger than her white hair would suggest. As I’m trying to ascertain if she has exceedingly light blond hair, if it’s artificially bleached, or a simple case of achromotrichia, she nods at me and sits on the only chair in my room.

“Please,” she says, pointing at the bed.

I take a seat.

“I’m Doctor Lydia Hetzel.”

I wonder how I’m supposed to react when someone who is not a doctor doctor comes for a visit. I feel she should be in possession of a clipboard or some important paperwork.

“Hello,” I say. And then I add, “I’m August Mathers.” I hold up my wristband where that name is printed.

“Indeed you are,” she says, smiling for the first time. “Indeed you are. I’m just popping in to see if you’re well. Many of our guest experience some confusion in the beginning. It’s nothing unusual. Just don’t worry. Things always improve.”

“That’s good to hear,” I say.

And her smiles expands, showing that I am behaving properly.

“It’s important to us that you feel free of stress. Free from any troublesome thoughts that might cause apprehension.”

“Is that what happened to Connie?”

Her smile vanishes.

“Where did you hear that name?” The corners of her mouth tighten. From her expression, it is clear that there are things I am not supposed to know about.

“Connie?” I say quietly, and I look down at the floor for a moment. I decide to be vague. “Now that you ask, I’m drawing a blank. I might be wrong, but I think someone spoke that name in association with a troubled individual.”

As I speak, I see concern—guarded concern—cross the Doctor’s face. And at my utterance of particular words I detect tiny twitches to her corrugator supercilii muscles, bringing almost invisible furrows to her forehead. Her behavior reminds me of when those other people showed surprise that I am capable of stringing together complete sentences.

It is probably too late for me to start drooling or behaving as a catatonic. However, I do make a decision from this point forward, to be very careful with what I say.

“August, I do hope that if there any questions you have, please come to me. Valerie and Ed, or any other staff members can direct you to my office. People say all sorts of things around here. But because of the condition of many of our guests, don’t take what you hear as a reliable fact. Ask me.”

She stands, lifting her hand to let me know I should remain seated.

“Well, everything is good here, isn’t it. You seem to be just fine.” Her smile has returned. “Grounded. Centered. A bit confused, I don’t doubt. But, as I said earlier, things will improve.” She points to the clock. “I’m sure Ed or Valerie explained that later in the evening there will be a treat. You get to join our other guests to help us make a TV show! And if you’re very very lucky, you might be chosen as a contestant with the chance to win a prize beyond your wildest dreams!”

Her smile exceeds the limits the human face should be able to accommodate.

When she closes the door behind her, I can’t help but reflect on those final words.

Somehow they sound—as I replay them in my mind—so much more troubling than enticing.