The patient still had not awakened—had, in fact, hardly stirred from a deep, exhausted sleep, the kind a person takes the way he would take a long draught of water after a hard and hot day's work—after three days. But Giancarlo was certain that it would be any time now.

He had made sure that he would be present when the moment came. As he had explained to the crew, he was the only person on the boat that the patient would recognize right now, and the man would be disoriented and possibly upset if he opened his eyes to an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar people. The doctor had neglected to mention the stranger's violent outburst during his makeshift surgery, or that he was afraid the man might react similarly if Giancarlo was not there to meet him, so to speak. It was a detail the others did not need to know.

And so it was that Giancarlo was present when the patient first spoke, very early in the morning on the fourth day, just as the sun's first shafts of light fell across the dirtied pane of the cabin's only window: "Who's that? Who are you?"

The doctor, who had been dozing on a nearby bunk, was suddenly wide awake and alert. Glancing over, he saw that the other man had maneuvered himself into a sitting position and was looking over at what must, in the dim light, be only a man-shaped lump. Moving deliberately, so as not to startle the man, the doctor swung his legs over the edge of the cot and sat up, bringing himself into the stranger's line of sight.

"I'm your friend," he said. "Do you remember?"

Though the man's face was shadowed in the dawn's gloaming, Giancarlo could feel his gaze, intent, scrutinizing. After a moment, the patient said, "Giancarlo." His tone was assured; he seemed very calm.

"That's right. How are you feeling?"

"Weak, but otherwise functional. I'll feel the wounds for a while, though, and my left shoulder is stiff. Actually, my entire body is stiff. How long have I been asleep?"

The man had not moved at all before or during his response, and Giancarlo was given to understand that he had completed his physical evaluation well before awakening the doctor. Giancarlo made no comment about this realization, but he did file it away for later consideration.

"Three days. As you say, it will take some time to heal, but you don't need to worry about that. The crew wants to stay out at sea for another two weeks or so, as long as you're able." Giancarlo offered his companion a small smile. "It would cut into their wages, you understand."

The patient nodded. It occurred to Giancarlo that there was something very unnerving in the way that the stranger held himself so utterly motionless on the rough cot despite the roll and pitch of the boat, the way that he maintained such level and unwavering eye contact, the way that his expression revealed absolutely nothing of what he might think or feel.

The doctor held his silence for what felt like a very long time, but when it became apparent that the other man had no intention of speaking, he cleared his throat and said, "Well, you know my name. What's yours?"

"What?" The question emerged from the man as if by reflex.

"What's your name?"

The patient's gaze fell away from his doctor then; he leaned his head back against the wall and inspected the pale light at the window. For several minutes he stayed like that, very still, before turning back to the doctor. "I don't know."

My God, Giovanni was right, Giancarlo nearly exclaimed, but he stopped the outburst before it reached his lips. Instead, he said, simply, "That's all right." He stopped to think for a moment. "Let's try something else. How about—do you remember how you ended up in the water? Before we found you?"

No answer. No movement. Just the morning light shifting across the man's face, the blue of his eyes becoming apparent at last. He still appeared to be calm, but Giancarlo thought he could detect something in the other man—an underlying strain, perhaps, or even the beginnings of panic. The stranger looked down at his hands, curled into loose fists in his lap.

"You were shot in the back," Giancarlo reminded his patient. "Twice. What happened? You were ready for the ocean—your wetsuit was very well-made, and you were wearing—"

"—a dive harness, model number 4220-01-392-0301." The patient cut in as if he were in a dream, his voice so low he might be talking to himself. "Commercially available to divers throughout the United States, but more specifically approved and recommended for use by the US navy." He stared at Giancarlo without seeing him, puzzled. "I saw it...next to the table. When you pointed out the tray with the bullets."

Giancarlo drew in a long breath. The man had been bleeding, upset, possibly delirious at that point. "If all that is true, that's very good," he said slowly. "How—how did you know that?"

The patient shook his head. "I don't know. I just do. Just like I can tell you that…that, for instance, this boat was built sometime in the '50s—probably the early to mid '50s, if I had to guess. Based on my initial observations I'd say it was built in the UK. And I know that you have a crew of nine, one less than full capacity, which means that either you aren't turning the kind of profit you want or there's a crewman who isn't here. Sick, I assume, and a relative of yours, since you didn't hire someone else."

"Perhaps I am not the one who is in charge of hiring, though. What about that?" More than a little unnerved, Giancarlo used the question to cover his sudden wariness. The man was right about all of it: the boat had been built in early 1954 in the Irish harbor of Dingle; Giancarlo's father used to laugh about the city's name. And his nephew Antonio, only son of his younger brother, was not aboard because he'd come down with the flu just before they were set to sail.

"Maybe not, but if that's the case I'd be surprised," the stranger was saying. "You're the only doctor aboard and, although you're still quite fit for your age—you're what, fifty-seven? fifty-eight?"

"Fifty-nine," Giancarlo supplied.

The man gave a short nod. "As I said, you're fit but your musculature isn't that of a man who's hauling in the nets all day, every day. So that would mean, if you're not on the deck, you're in the navigator's cabin, a position that usually goes to the first-mate or captain. But since you're down here with me after three days instead of upstairs navigating the boat, it stands to reason that you're in charge, and have told your first-mate to take command for the time being."

In response to the stunned look on Giancarlo's face, the patient offered, "I can keep going if you want." And, despite the sheer insanity of it all, a small, lucid bit of the doctor was pleased to note the arch tone of the statement. So there is a person here after all, that bit thought. A man who takes pride in his ability, no matter how uncanny. It was a strange realization, oddly reassuring.

So he said, "Sure. Let's see what else you've got. You were right about our missing crewman, by the way—my nephew, Antonio, is sick at home."

The stranger regarded him with that signature intensity. "You're about six foot one, maybe six foot two, two-hundred and twenty pounds. You'd never start a fight, but you know how to end one. You trained at one point—a boxer?"

"Many years ago. Nothing formal, though, just a club sport at university."

"Not an Italian university, I think, nor British. You speak English very fluently, but it's the wrong accent. It must have been in Germany—western Germany, somewhere northern."

"Yes, that's right; I was in Bonn." Giancarlo's voice sounded strange in his own ears. He felt somehow detached from the conversation.

"I assume you studied medicine there. But something happened to prevent you from graduating with your degree, since doctors don't usually become fishermen. I'm guessing it was a death in the family—your father's, most likely, since the job is traditionally reserved for men. You had to come home and support the family." The man stopped, then, and took in Giancarlo's reaction. Something in his expression softened; where before he had been utterly focused, now he seemed uncertain. "I'm sorry. I've upset you."

"No." The word dropped from his mouth like a stone; Giancarlo didn't know why he said it. Truthfully, he didn't know how he felt. He corrected himself, "Well—yes. A little. But it's okay. I'm—I hope you understand me when I say I'm astonished. How did you know all that?"

For the first time since he'd awoken, the man looked helpless. He shook his head, and Giancarlo could read the frustration in the hard set of his mouth, in the tension of his fingers. "I don't know. It's like I said before—I just do."

"Well." The doctor didn't know how to respond, but anything seemed better than nothing. Than silence.

"It seems ridiculous that I can figure all that out, but I don't—" The patient clenched his jaw, swallowed hard. The emotion in the sheared-off statement was the first obvious sign that he might be anything other than collected. That he might be agitated. When he resumed his voice was firm and oddly uninflected. "I don't remember anything that happened before I woke up on your table four nights ago. How is that possible?"

Giancarlo shrugged distractedly, still somewhat disturbed but unwilling to admit to it. "Amnesia is very common in people who experience trauma. Don't worry. It will all come back to you soon. But for now, you need to rest. As your body regains its strength, your memory will follow."

Shifting himself to gaze up once more at the cabin's small window, the man murmured, "Amnesia." Like he was trying to make himself believe it.

"Yes," Giancarlo assured him as he stood to leave. "But you must rest now, okay? Call me if there is pain, or you need company."

The patient nodded absently, and Giancarlo abruptly understood that he would never receive any summons from this man—not for companionship, and certainly not for pain relief. As he exited, ducking through the cabin door, he tried to understand the implications of that knowledge.

Behind him, he could feel the patient's unasked question hanging in the air: What if it doesn't come back?

He shook his head. He had no more answer to that question than the patient did.