FOURTEEN
December, 1919
I woke with the afternoon sun in my eyes, thanks to a westward window, and no recollection of my whereabouts. Panic struck, for a moment, followed by an uncomfortable crick in my neck and a stiffness in my entire body. I sat up abruptly, staring around, a book tumbling off my lap, and my eyes fell on Mr Apostol.
He sat serenely in a chair across from me, a large tome balanced on the arm of the chair, a journal on his knee, taking notes. The afternoon sun fell on him, too, lighting his features most dramatically. He looked like an illustration from a book, with the sharp contrast of light and shadow, the dark grey of his suit, black tie, sable hair, and the whiteness of his skin and stiff, celluloid collar. He might have been a print, except for the quick motions
