In the beginning, the hospital room was a revolving door of people.
Strange faces came and went, their features quickly blurring together until Chaisi couldn't tell one from another. He remembered traffic cops, nurses, doctors, detectives, social workers... Every fleshy, indistinct face would open its mouth and pour out an endless tide of questions.
Who is your mother?
Where did you get on the highway?
Did you notice the car door? Was it closed? Did she jump out?
What about your father? Oh, you've never met him?
Do you have any other relatives then?
Other than being able to answer, "My mother's name is Daiju Monroe," Chaisi couldn't respond to a single question.
Chaisi used to sometimes imagine he had a father—a CIA agent working deep undercover abroad, or maybe a top scientist on a secret project that kept them apart. They were the ordinary fantasies of a child.
