Went to see her.

I went to see my old therapist. Brought the notebook and the receipt in a folder so I wouldn't lose anything.

I'd rehearsed what I was going to say on the drive. Once I sat down, I kept getting ahead of myself. Started with the diner, then had to explain the house, then realized I hadn't told her about the ladder.

She let me talk. Asked questions when she couldn't follow something. How long I'd been away. Whether anyone had seen me leave or come back.

I couldn't give her much.

She asked about food and sleep. I told her I'd already written about that, and she said she knew, but wanted to hear it from me. I was getting impatient by then. I'd brought pages of notes and we were talking about how many meals I'd missed.

Eventually I showed her my leg.

She looked, then asked what I wanted her to see.

The knee. I told her there hadn't been a knee. The amputation was above it.

She knew I'd lost the leg, of course. We'd spent enough time talking about the accident. But she'd never seen it, and she didn't know where the surgeons had amputated. I don't think I'd understood until that moment how much I was relying on her remembering something she'd never actually seen.

I kept explaining anyway. Told her about the socket, how it used to fit, how I'd woken up and couldn't get it on.

She asked whether I'd contacted the doctor who'd treated me. I hadn't.

We sat without saying much for a little while. I pulled my trouser leg back down.

She gave me the name of a psychiatrist at a clinic. Wrote the telephone number on a piece of paper and said he was better qualified to help with what I was describing. She wanted me to call and arrange an appointment.

I asked whether she'd looked at the date on the receipt.

She had.

I asked what she thought it meant.

She said she couldn't explain the receipt. Then she asked me to look at her.

“Promise me you won't go back into the basement. Go to the clinic. This is important to me.”

I said I'd think about it.

She left her hand on the paper for a moment before sliding it across the desk. I took it and put it in the folder.

On the way home I went over everything I'd failed to explain. The notebook is full of corrections. I don't know how long anything took. The receipt has a date on it, but I can't show where I got it. Even my leg requires someone to take my word for how it looked before.

I'd expected her to understand once I put it all in front of her. Instead I could hear how it must have sounded from her chair.

I need something she can check.

If that diner is there, I can go back to it. Get more than a receipt. Buy a newspaper. Find out who owns the house. Film the rooms properly, then the street outside, then keep filming until I reach somewhere with a name on the building.

I've been sitting at the kitchen table making a list. Every time I remember another question she asked, I add something.

The clinic's number is beside the list. I haven't called.