The two settled on eating at a little family restaurant Eli sometimes frequented when in town, a decision that pleased her to no end. Nearly two months had passed since she'd eaten out, really eaten out, and the truth was that she was wary of being home alone with her companion.

And it was just as well. The evening was so agreeable that she almost forgot herself. The weather was brilliant and clear, the music was just right, and, to her delight, there were hardly any children present. What more could a gal ask?

"So, what's the difference between the braised bourbon chicken and the chicken flambé?" she asked with a twisted mouth, scrutinizing the menu in careful detail. "They look pretty much the same."

"About seven dollars. I prefer the bourbon, but you're right. They're pretty much the same ... the same sides, too. I'd go with the dry ribs, though. They're definitely worth the trouble."

"But they're messy ...," she quietly meeped.

"If you want tidy food, definitely the ribeye and rice. It's never let me down."

Throwing caution to the wind, she had the ribeye. He ordered the Greek stir-fry.

"My dad says you worked on one of our cars, once," she said out of nowhere.

"You talked to your dad? How's he doing?"

"Better. He's had a hard time getting around the last few years, and mom doesn't like leaving him alone. They weren't even able to make it out for Otto's funeral."

For some reason, her words, or perhaps her tone, seemed to strike a sympathetic chord with Eli. His face took on what she only could describe as the deepest concern. "I'm really sorry your pops is having a rough time of it, but I don't remember working on a car for him."

"He said it was your part-time job in high school." She took a pull on her straw. "Maybe he's thinking of somebody else."

"No. I worked on cars. It was one of those things after the accident. I developed all sorts of interests I didn't have before." He cocked his head as he sometimes did. "What kind of car?"

"An older blue mustang, dad's midlife-crisis-mobile."

"Black stripe down the hood?"

"Mm-hmm ...," she mumbled around her straw.

"I remember that car. I rebuilt the carburetor." He gave a short laugh. "That's funny, I remember it being for somebody else."

"He says he liked you ... and he was sorry to hear about your mom."

"I didn't even know they knew one another," he mused. "But I guess they would have."

"What did your mom pass away from?" she asked.

"She killed herself."

It had seemed an innocent question, but the only thing that kept another gasp or cry from escaping her was the hand that flew to her mouth. There was a slight tightening in her throat, and she couldn't think of what to say. Of course, it would have been something tragic. Eli's mother had still been young. Eli just looked over at her, something in his eyes she'd not seen before. His hand touched hers.

"I sh ... I'm sorry," she replied after a moment and with greater calm than she felt.

"It was a long time ago," he said in a voice that was deeper than usual. Was that emotion?

By some miracle or divine grace, the server came at that moment to refill their drinks. It gave Kate a moment to compose herself, and it occurred to her this was the first time she'd eaten at a restaurant that provided straws in so long she couldn't remember. For some bizarre reason, one she couldn't begin to fathom, that observation cheered her. They sat for a few minutes more, touching hands in an oddly comfortable silence.

"It's funny what you remember," he said after a time. "I can recall exactly what the girl I was with was wearing that day. And I can remember what she and the others were drinking ... though I can't remember any of their names but one."

He sipped his soda and was silent for a moment or two more.

"Do you remember Dave Montash?"

"I remember the name," she admitted. "Sort of an asshole?"

"Yeah, you're thinking of the right guy. About ... fourteen, maybe fifteen years ago I was doing a permanent change of station between Lewis-McChord and Fort Bragg, and one leg of my drive took me down I-74, so I pulled off in Peoria. Thought I'd stretch my legs and take a short drive around the old stomping ground. To make a short story long, I stopped to watch football practice at St. Fithian. Montash was assistant coach then.

"Oh, those poor kids," she couldn't help but interject.

"Yeah, him, Seth Perdue, Elliot Frederich were all helping with the football program then. Except for maybe a few years during college, none of them had ever left Peoria. And the funny thing was, I stood there with the three of them for over an hour, yucking it up about old days. I could barely remember high school then, but after a dozen plus years, they remembered all that shit like it was yesterday ... places they'd been, games they played, pranks they pulled ... all in minute detail."

"Well," she confided, "they were all sort of losers."

"Seth wasn't that bad, but I couldn't help but wonder about all of it." He paused for a few moments, obviously deep in thought. "When I bumped into you the other day, I couldn't remember your name to save my life. But I recognized your face, at least after I looked at you a few times.

"Oh, I know what you were looking at," she growled just loud enough for him to hear. She allowed her shoulders to go back slightly just in case he'd missed the implication, but that goofy open-mouthed smile she so hated sprang up when she did. Damnit.

"No offense to your two young friends, but I was looking at your eyes ... and your lips." He looked her hard in the eye. "You have the most beautiful lips, especially when you smile the way you just did."

Oooff. Even her inner voice didn't know what to say. "Get on with the story, buddy," was all she could muster.

"But I did remember you," he said with a hint of excitement. "And since then, seeing you, talking together, thinking of the past, I've remembered more and more. I mean ... it's natural, isn't it? One memory leads to the next, which leads to the next. These guys remembered so, so much because it's all they did. Those three nincompoops live in the same town, hang out with the same people in the same places, and day after day harp over the glories of the past. Shit, we were all almost thirty by then, and Elliot still drove the same car he did in high school."

It was then Eli leaned forward, a look on his face that was almost conspiratorial. "But later, I started thinking about what Montash and the others said and the stories they told. None of them were quite right. Some of them were about me ... or at least involved me. And since then, it's hit me that maybe they're doing the same thing my old man did in his letters, except they were telling stories about things from after my accident, things I could remember, at least in part."

"Look," he continued, "these stooges spent ten minutes trying to explain to me something we did together during track season our junior year. Except I didn't run track during junior year. And a prank I supposedly took part in the year before had me climbing a fence and running through the woods behind the junior high. I was still in a leg brace from the accident then and could barely walk across the room. There were two or three other things they talked about that I knew were nonsense, so I refuse to believe any of it."

"They couldn't have gotten all of it wrong," she protested. "Maybe they just screwed up the dates?"

"Maybe," he agreed. "But I don't remember doing any of that stuff, not when they said I did ... and a lot of it not at all. One of the principals of interrogation is to listen to the story and don't tell it. If you badger someone over a set of facts long enough, especially if that person is good natured, gullible, or eager to please, then it's easy to convince someone they did something or experienced something that they didn't. That's where false confessions come from. And just like the old man's letters, the stories I heard from Montash and the others all seemed to put one person at the center and to flatter him above anyone else ... Dave Montash."

"Look, I'm not saying Montash made all that shit up ... maybe he did ... but I am certain he pestered and cajoled the other two into accepting that his memories were the way events actually happened. I mean ... he was always the ringleader of that crew. And who knows, maybe he didn't even know he was doing it as he did it. And what do you want to bet Seth and Elliot parroting everything Dave said only reinforced Dave's certainty of his own memories?"

"So, what then?" she said, "history is written by the assholes?"

"It might well be. I know you're joking, but absent documents or physical evidence, history might be written by the loudest, most opinionated windbag ... especially one with his own personal echo chamber."

"Well, I'm going to get my two cents in now," she demanded. "You were always checking my ass out in high school."

"I mighta done," he said with an innocent smile. "Either way, our memories are a lot more flexible and easily influenced than we like to think."