Robert Jeschonek’s stories just shout Pulphouse in so many ways. I have been very lucky to have a story of his in every issue I have edited so far. Actually, readers have been lucky. And this amazingly original story of looking at Alzheimer’s and a writer’s muse will prove the point. And to writers, this might be the most frightening story ever written.

Robert’s stories have appeared in dozens of magazines and he has published dozens of novels as well. He has even worked for DC Comics and early in his career sold me a couple stories when I was editing for Star Trek at Pocket Books. He seems to be able to do it all. And to see all the amazing projects he has done, check out his website at https://www.robertjeschonek.com/

I know I’m not getting through to him.

The sixty-year-old writer narrows his eyes as if he fully grasps the passage I’m reading aloud, but I know he doesn’t. As he sits in his recliner in the sunroom of his Malibu, California, mansion, the words wash over him like raindrops without making an impression, like always.

Never mind that together, those words have spoken so eloquently to so many men and women the world over. They might as well be gibberish to him, or at least ramblings in a foreign tongue he only barely comprehends. Even though he once wrote those words with his own mind and soul and hands.

Watching his face, I read one more sentence, which I know by heart…the last sentence of the book. “‘And so I stand here, thirsting for one last word from her lips so sweet and so dead, dying for one last chance to revisit all at which we failed in such wretched disgrace, none of which I would change in the slightest even knowing what I know now.’”

As the last syllable trails off in the late-summer air, I continue to stare, waiting for what I know is coming. His bright blue gold-flecked eyes (impossibly bright!) tick left-right left-right as if he is pondering what he just heard, assembling a cogent critique or some rare new insight.

Then, blam. His eyes shine even brighter with the flash of an idiot’s grin. “Pretty story!” His hands bounce on his blue plaid pajama-covered knees. “Thank you, Doctor…Doctor…”

He can’t even remember my name. The man won every writing award in the world—won the Man Booker Prize for the very book I just finishing reading aloud to him—and he can’t even remember my name.

“Doctor Annie Delacroix.” I point to the ID badge pinned to my white lab coat. “You can call me Annie.”

“Annie.” He tips his Alzheimer’s-riddled head to the left and grins even wider. “I like you, Doctor Annie.”

I smile back at him and close the book. “I like you, too, Ralph. I like you very much.”

And I am going to make you write again if it’s the last thing I do.

“So what’s the good word?” Marjorie Livingston, Ralph’s literary agent, corners me on my way out the door of the sunroom to lunch. Her eyes flash with intense interest verging on manic desperation. “Can you work with him?”

I close the door gently before I answer. “Yes. Yes, I can work with him.”

Marjorie’s bright red lipsticked lips unfold in a grin that’s part relief, part victory, part hunger. She gives her head a toss, artfully stirring her long raven hair. “And what are our odds of success, do you think?”

“I won’t make you any promises.” Though my personal expectations are high, I don’t want to fuel the pressure from the woman in charge around here…and that would be Marjorie. Ralph signed over his power of attorney to her a few years ago—before the Alzheimer’s affected his judgment, supposedly. It’s almost a cliché these days: predatory agent latches onto an elderly writer with a big name and a steadily weakening mind. “You know how fragile and fluid his condition is.”

“And you know we need an authentic new Ralph Lang book to put the Ralph Lang brand back on the map.” Her pretty face stiffens. She hired me, gave me a chance at a high-profile win, but I know it won’t take much for her to turn against me. “We need a book with his name on it that actually reads like he wrote it.”

“I’m aware of that, Ms. Livingston,” I tell her.

“We need a Harper Lee-level comeback to put us back in the black,” says Marjorie. “Ralph’s medical expenses have been outpacing his earnings for too long. It’s been too many years without new Ralph Lang product on the shelves.”

“But neither of us wants to damage the golden goose, do we?” I ask.

Marjorie narrows her dark brown eyes at me. If she could shoot bullets out of her pupils, I swear I’d already be full of lead. “That would not be an optimal solution.”

“I’ll take that for a ‘no.’”

“But your time is not unlimited, Doctor.” Marjorie shakes her head. “There are other promising treatments on our radar. Not all of them are as…non-invasive…as yours.”

“Then go for it,” I tell her. “But one thing I can guarantee is that no other method will come close to the results mine can deliver…if you let me do my job.”

I wouldn’t think her glare could get any flintier, but it does. And then it softens. Because she knows damn well that I’m her best chance.

She’s been trying to answer this question for the past seven years: how to cover her client’s sky-high expenses (which rumor has it are due more to a crooked agent with the initials M.L. than the author himself) when her client has stopped writing because of Alzheimer’s.

Ghost writers couldn’t make it happen, that’s for sure. Marjorie brought in a few to work some of Ralph’s old notes and outlines into books…but Ralph Lang’s voice is just too idiosyncratic, his books too complex and unpredictable. Of the three so-called Lang novels published in the past seven years, not one has been accepted as authentic by critics and the reading public.

The fact is, if Marjorie wants to make another big splash with the Ralph Lang brand, she needs new work written by Ralph himself. That’s why she brought me in and agreed to finance my work with him.

I’m the one who developed a treatment to rebuild creative brains attacked by Alzheimer’s. I’m the one with the best chance of bringing more Ralph Lang writing to the world.

Marjorie knows I can deliver; she’s heard what I did with Lois Santangelo and Gabriel Carmen. She knows my treatment has a proven track record.

In the end, we both want the same thing: Ralph Lang’s gifts restored, his work flowing once more. I’m confident I can make that happen, assuming she keeps her meddling to a minimum…and any surprises are of the beneficial variety.

After lunch, I’m back in the sunroom, watching the private nurse, Joe Prowse, as he swabs the bend in Ralph’s right arm with an anesthetic-dowsed cotton ball.

“It’s still hard to believe sometimes,” Joe says softly. “That it’s really him, I mean.”

While Joe gets Ralph ready, I’m preparing the first injection of the treatment regimen, filling a syringe from a little glass vial. Looking over, I steal a glance at Ralph’s sleeping face. “I know exactly what you mean.”

Joe swabs Ralph’s arm with gentle, lingering care. He’s a little guy, a dark-haired fireplug in pale gray scrubs. “I practically worshipped the guy, you know? I’ll never forget the first time I read Tiger’s Lament.”

“Such a great book.” I finish filling the syringe and return the vial to my case. “It set the standard, didn’t it?”

Joe has one of those artfully trimmed goatees, a fine black loop around his chin, bisected by a thin vertical line running through the cleft to his lower lip. When he grins, the loop spreads out like a ripple on a pond. “I think my favorite is still Forever and Evan, though. That’s the one that changed my life.”

I smile as I stick the needle in Ralph’s arm. Forever and Evan changed my life, too. Reviving the mind that wrote it is one of the reasons I took this job.

“You really think you can do it, don’t you?” asks Joe as I withdraw the needle and step away. “You think you can bring him back.”

“All I can do is try,” I tell him.

When I return the next morning, I expect no miracles, as Ralph’s treatment has barely begun…and my expectations are borne out by reality.

“Hello?” He frowns up at me over his breakfast tray with deep puzzlement, as if he’s never seen me before.

“Good morning. I’m Doctor Annie.” I smile and wave. “I’d like to visit with you for a while, if that’s all right.”

Slowly, Ralph’s puzzled frown melts into a blank but not unfriendly expression. “All right.”

“Would you like me to come back later, after you’ve finished breakfast?”

His eyes widen with alarm. “No, no! Please, stay. What did you say your name is?”

“Annie,” I tell him, bowing a little. “Doctor Annie Delacroix.”

“Good to meet you, Annie.” His eyes brighten, and he gestures with the slice of toast in his hand. “Please, have a seat.”

I nod once and walk over to the table by the big picture window, where I put down my case. The room is walled with windows and patio doors that let in waves of light and salt sea air. Circling around, I pause to take in the view of the glittering beach beyond the patio…one of the rewards for his long and profitable career.

I open the case, pull out a pen and notepad, and take a seat on a simple wooden chair across from his recliner—a chair I put there the morning before, to establish our work space. “How are you feeling this morning?”

“I don’t know.” He scowls. “Not sure yet.”

That’s good, about what I expected. Yesterday’s injection—a cocktail of glutamate receptor blockers, beta-amyloid and tau protein inhibitors, customized smart antibodies, and my own secret ingredient—can have a disorienting effect before the benefits start to kick in.

I cross my left leg over my right and smile. “Well, it’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

Ralph tips his head right. “Yes, you are beautiful, Abby.”

He catches me off guard when he says that, and I drop the notepad on the floor. “Thank you.” I lean down and retrieve it, then sit up again to meet his gaze.

“You’re very welcome,” says Ralph.

It’s about time we get to the reason I’m here—his treatment. “May I read to you a while, Ralph? I brought a book you might enjoy.”

He slumps. “I guess.”

“Good. I like to read.” I get up and take the breakfast tray from him, placing it on the table by the picture window. While I’m there, I pull a thick hardcover book from my case; masking tape hides the author’s name on the cover and spine, though the title is visible.

Somebody Get Me Another Bullet: Collected Stories. That’s the title. And the author? Ralph Lang, of course.

Not that he would likely remember anything about this book. If past human trials are any indication, we won’t see the first signs of recollection for two or three weeks.

“Let’s start with this one.” I crack the book to a spot I’ve dog-eared, a story near the midpoint. “It’s called ‘The Tensing Fawn.’” Clearing my throat, I check his face…but it’s as blank as a hard-boiled egg. So I start reading. “‘Sometimes, I think of how many people would still be alive if that year had never happened.’”

Ralph leans back in his recliner and listens, head turned slightly away as he directs his better ear—the left one—toward me.

“‘Though I suppose every year is like that, in the end. There are casualties.’” I pause and look up, but nothing has changed in Ralph’s expression. “‘And the replacements never stop coming, devouring everything in their path.’”

Just then, Ralph interrupts. “Annie?” He leans forward with a look of solemn urgency. “Are you a writer?”

“No, Ralph. I’m a doctor. A psychiatrist.”

“But didn’t you write this story? The one about the fawn?”

I shake my head. “No, I didn’t. I’m only reading it.”

Ralph keeps leaning forward. His mouth moves, as if he’s trying to articulate something that won’t quite come to him.

“What is it, Ralph?” I ask him. “Would you like me to keep reading?”

His lips stop moving, and his eyes grow wide. He looks surprised. “Am I?”

“Are you what?”

He looks away, out the window, then back at me. He’s more astonished than ever. “Am I a writer?”

The breath catches in my chest. I snap the book shut, unable to believe what I’ve just heard him say.

“Why do you ask that question?” I fight to keep my voice level. It’s important I don’t color his response.

Ralph shakes his head. Instead of answering my question, he asks another. “If you didn’t write that story, who did?” His eyes fix on me like headlights on a deer in the road. “Was it me?”

Reflexively, I check to make sure his name on the cover and spine of the book is completely taped over. It is.

What he just said is impossible. The soonest any human subject has ever asked that question or anything like it is day ten of treatment. Never before has it happened on day two.

“Why do you think it was you?” I ask. “Why do you think you wrote this story?”

“Just a feeling I had when I heard the words.” Ralph relaxes back into his recliner. “Could you read me some more, please, Doctor Annie?”

“I wrote that on a typewriter.” Ralph says it out of the blue, without prompting, after I finish. “The kind…” His fingers flicker in his lap as if they’re dancing over a keyboard. “The kind without electricity.”

“A manual typewriter.” As always, I keep my voice level, though my heart is secretly racing.

“Yes. A Safari brand.” He taps his chin with an index finger and nods. “It was a good thing it was a manual, because the power kept going out. I couldn’t stay ahead of the electric bill.”

I’m so excited, I’m trembling inside. Just like that—one injection, one reading—and he’s remembering details of his past.

“Where was this, Ralph?” I ask him. “Where did the power keep going out?”

The words flow out of him easily. “My little studio apartment in Brooklyn. It was rat-infested, roach-infested…and writer-infested.” He chuckles softly. “Peter Cardinale stayed there sometimes, and so did Villa Glazier. They were both sleeping on my floor the whole time I wrote that story, in fact.”

“Did they?” My eyes widen. I’ve heard tales of his legendary times with Cardinale and Glazier.

Ralph nods emphatically. “They both told me the story was shit, but I knew better. The more those jealous bastards said they hated it, the better I knew it had to be.” He laughs loudly.

“How old were you then?”

He doesn’t even have to think about it. “Twenty-two and a half.”

I’m stunned. “What story did you write next, Ralph?”

He turns his head and looks at me. “What?”

“What did you write after ‘The Tensing Fawn?’”

His smile melts away like a snowflake. “I don’t…uh….hmm.” He shakes his head as if to clear it, but the frown that lands on his face suggests anything but clarity. “What did I write, you ask?”

“Yes.”

“I did write ‘The Tensing Fawn.’ Peter and Villa were staying with me at the time.” He narrows his eyes as he says it. “We were in a studio apartment in Brooklyn. I was using a manual Safari typewriter.”

I nod slowly. “And then?”

I watch him glower and struggle for a long moment before he meets my gaze again. This time, his bright blue eyes look helpless and resigned. “I don’t know.”

“So where do we stand?” Marjorie leans over the untouched shrimp salad in front of her, focused entirely on me.

What a shame she has to spoil a perfect setting—a light lunch laid out on an elegant white table on a balcony of Ralph’s mansion facing the Pacific. I didn’t invite her, I don’t want her at my table…but she’s the boss, so there’s nothing I can do about it. She can pull the plug on my work with Ralph at any time, and I don’t want that to happen.

I reach for my iced tea in its tall, blue-tinted glass. “We are on day two of the regimen. He is responding to treatment. Beyond that, I’m not prepared to say.”

Marjorie leans further over her salad. “Come on, Doctor. I’m having a lousy day. Give me something I can work with.”

There’s no way I’m even going to hint at the level of success I’ve had. If she knew Ralph was regaining memories this early in the game, she’d be pushing like a maniac for that book she expects.

Not to mention, I have no idea if the phenomenon will be lasting or repeatable. And I’m worried that it seems to be so limited in scope. Ralph only seems to have regained memories formed during the writing of the story “The Tensing Fawn.”

I sip my iced tea and put it down in front of me. “Sorry, I can’t help you. I won’t leak the results until they’ve been normalized.”

Marjorie rolls her eyes. “Then make something up! Throw me a damn life preserver here!”

“As soon as I have something concrete, I’ll let you know.”

“Well, you better make it snappy.” Marjorie throws herself back and wraps her arms across her chest. “Things are getting ugly right now.”

“Why is that?” I ask as I reach for my salad fork.

“The printing error of the century,” says Marjorie. “Somehow, several consecutive page signatures were left blank across an entire print run of the new edition of one of Ralph’s books.”

“Page signature?”

“A section of a book,” explains Marjorie. “One big sheet is folded and cut into pages. In this case, they were set to include one story in its entirety…and now it’s gone. Somehow, in spite of all the printer’s and publisher’s quality control measures, no one caught the mistake until the book’s laydown in stores, which just happened today.”

“The story’s…gone?”

“All that’s left is the story’s title in the table of contents,” says Marjorie. “Otherwise, poof…blank pages.”

I stare at her as I process what I’m hearing. “What book is it, did you say?”

“An annotated reissue of one of his short story collections,” says Marjorie. “Somebody Get Me Another Bullet, it’s called.”

The hairs stand up on the back of my neck. “And what story was left blank?”

“The best in the book, of course.” Marjorie slams her hands down on the table. “‘The Tensing Fawn.’ Can you believe it?”

“No.” I shake my head slowly as I consider the incredible coincidence, which I decide I will keep to myself. “No, I can’t.”

“Thank God you’re back,” says Nurse Joe when I enter Ralph’s sunroom. “He kept telling me I was fired if I didn’t go find you and drag you back in here.”

“Is that her?” Ralph, who’s standing at the patio doors, hobbles toward me. “It’s about time!”

I frown at Joe. “Is something wrong? Did something happen?”

Joe bobs his head toward Ralph. “He wants you to read him more stories.” He grins. “I hope your pipes are up for it.”

“Yes, well.” I don a neutral smile. “We might have some other work to do first.”

“No!” Ralph’s face flares with panic. “I need a story first. Another story.” He teeters the last few steps and reaches for me.

I grab his forearms; otherwise, I’m afraid he might fall. “We’ll get to that, don’t worry. I just need to ask you some questions first.”

“No questions!” Ralph’s panic suddenly shifts to anger.

Judging from his childish reactions, perhaps I don’t need to conduct a formal assessment after all. It seems pretty clear he’s lost his bearings again, which was the exact thing I wanted to determine. So much for the memory restoration being a lasting effect.

But is it repeatable? Maybe I should just give him what he wants and lead with a story. That will tell the tale, one way or the other.

“Story first!” shouts Ralph…and then the tantrum melts away. His angry glare twists into an anguished scowl, and tears flow down his cheeks. “Please, Doctor Annie. Don’t make me wait.”

I meet Joe’s gaze, and he draws Ralph away from me without a word. Gently, he guides him across the room and eases him into his recliner.

“Okay, Ralph.” Crossing the room, I retrieve a book from a stack on the table by the picture window. This one, like the first, has masking tape over the author’s name on the cover and spine. “Let’s start with a story after all.”

The relief on Ralph’s face is pure and powerful. “Oh, thank you. It’s just, I want to see if I can remember anything else like Peter and Villa and the Safari typewriter.”

When he says it, I nearly drop the book. The retrieved memories haven’t faded, after all.

I’m stunned, but I stay in professional mode. “Then let’s try another one, shall we?” I open the book, a collection called Foundlings and Other Curses, to a dog-eared spot near the end of its length. “This story is called ‘Beyond the Beans, Above the Box.’”

Ralph smiles, settling back. “I like the title.”

“Yeah, good choice!” Joe’s face lights up. “All right if I listen, too?”

I shake my head. “I’d rather you didn’t.” I don’t want Joe—or anyone else—in the room for this. Much better if I’m the only witness in case Ralph’s small miracle repeats.

Joe shrugs. “Let me know if you need anything.”

As he leaves the room, I sit in my chair across from Ralph. I cross my left leg over my right and prop the open book on my knee. “‘Seven children and eighty-four years ago, I dug up something terrible and wonderful beyond words in the far back corner of the bean field.’”

When the story ends, Ralph gets up from his recliner and paces the floor. His posture is straighter than before, his hands clasped behind his back.

At first, he doesn’t say anything. Then, on his third trip across the room, he fixes me in a steady, clear gaze. “I remember.”

My heart beats fast, and I am trembling like the last time we did this…as if I am the one undergoing seismic change. “What do you remember?”

“Writing that story, for one thing.” His hand flutters as if he considers the story a trifle. “It was…sometime after ‘The Tensing Fawn,’ but I’m not sure when, exactly. Just…after.”

I nod. “What else?”

“I was living in…New Orleans?” He frowns and scratches his head, then snaps his fingers. “Baton Rouge. I had a Cajun girlfriend and a black girlfriend at the same time.”

I sit and watch as he does the heavy lifting. Everything he tells me is absolutely accurate; I know, because I did some online research at lunch (after Marjorie left), making sure of my facts from the time of his life when he wrote “Beyond the Beans, Above the Box.”

“What else?” I ask him.

Ralph walks back and forth, then stops in front of me and grins. “Happy times.” He closes his eyes. “Music day and night. Dancing at the fais do-do.” His eyes open. “Crawfish and cornbread and Dixie beer.”

I give him my usual neutral smile and nod. “Anything else?”

Ralph squints hard, rubbing his chin. Then, his eyes light up. “Yes! I broke my leg falling out of a tree! I was in a cast…” His expression darkens. “I was in a cast when I finished the story, I know that much. Beyond that, I still don’t remember.”

“Okay.” So his retrieved memories are still limited to the period when he was writing the story I just read to him. The effect is consistent…across two stories, anyway. But I need more data to map its impact across a broader sampling. “Would you like me to read another?”

Again, he lights up. “Are you kidding?” He gestures at the stack of books on the table behind me. “How about the next one I wrote after ‘Beyond the Beans, Above the Box?’ So I can see what happened next.”

“Sure.” I go to the table and pull the tablet computer out of my case. I open Ralph’s bibliography on the screen, locate the next story in the chronological sequence, and note which collection includes it. Then, I put down the tablet, find the right book in the stack, and go to the page I want.

“What’s it called?” asks Ralph.

“‘Mauvette Makes Good,’” I tell him. “It’s from a collection titled Sorghum and Gomorra.”

By the time I’m done reading, Ralph remembers getting the cast off his leg and selling a story to The New Yorker for the first time. He remembers leaving Baton Rouge on the run from his black girlfriend’s preacher father, then heading down to El Paso, Texas, to visit a writer friend. He laughs when he talks about the good times they had over the border in Ciudad Juarez, Mexico…especially getting mixed up with a gang of wild señoritas at a cockfight.

He doesn’t hesitate to ask me to read him another one after we’ve tapped his “Mauvette Makes Good” memories as much as we can. Looking at my watch, I see it’s almost 3:30 p.m. The next work, a novel called Untitled, isn’t long—a little over 200 pages—but there’s no way I’ll finish it by the end of our day at five.

Seeing his expectant, desperate face, though, I feel as if I have no choice. He’s getting his life back in pieces after being empty for so long; how can I deny him another morsel?

“Please, Annie,” says Ralph. “Won’t you please read another?”

“All right.” I smile and reach for the book. “Let’s see how far we get with this one.”

“The End.” That’s how far we get.

It takes nearly seven hours, but we make it all the way to the end of the book. I skip dinner, so does he, and we finish Untitled in one sitting (plus bathroom breaks).

The impact of the book is powerful and immediate. It has the same effect on Ralph that the stories did, only stronger. It brings back so many more memories from a bigger block of time—which makes sense, since it took him longer to write the novel than the stories.

After hearing me read Untitled, he remembers living in three different places with four different women over two and a half years. He talks about being in a car crash near Seattle, a poker tournament in Vegas, and a riot in Los Angeles.

It all comes rushing back to him in one glorious torrent, a river of experience which until now had been dried up for years. I see and hear him growing stronger from it, sitting straighter and speaking louder.

“Read me another,” he says as I give him the latest shot of his medication. “Let’s stay up all night and read everything we can.”

“Tomorrow,” I tell him. “I need some rest, and so do you.”

“But I don’t want to stop now.” Ralph’s eyes flash to the stacks of books on the table by the window. “I want to remember everything.”

I pull the needle from his arm and pat his shoulder. “No need to rush it,” I tell him. “Relax and enjoy the ride, Ralph.”

When I drive to work at Ralph’s mansion the next morning—half an hour late, after our marathon session the night before—I’m in for a surprise. The place is thick with security guards, starting at the front gate. I used to just get buzzed in by Nurse Joe; now, I get the third degree and demands for photo ID from two big brutes.

The guards look like Special Forces on patrol, dressed in black and armed to the teeth. All of them wear body armor and carry machine guns; some even have German Shepherds on quick-release leashes.

Heart pounding, I park my black BMW in the front drive, wondering what has happened to bring out the big guns. I throw my car door open so fast, I almost hit an approaching guard. As he stumbles back out of the way, he snaps out a request to see my ID.

At which point, I hear Marjorie shouting from the mansion’s open front door. “Doctor Delacroix! We’ve been waiting for you!”

Snatching my case from the seat beside me, I leap out of the car and hurry toward her. “What’s going on? What happened?”

“Ralph’s on lockdown.” Her glare is pitch black, her arms clamped across her chest. “We’re under attack.”

Suddenly, I’m short of breath. “Is he all right?”

“He is.” Marjorie tosses her head in disgust and leads me inside. “But I can’t say the same for his work.”

“What are you talking about?”

She slams the door shut behind us. “His disappearing oeuvre, is what I’m talking about. His vanishing bibliography.”

I don’t say a word as I follow her into the living room. Suddenly, I’m anxious for reasons that have nothing to do with Ralph’s health.

Marjorie heads straight for the bar at the far end of the room. “We lost another story this morning. ‘Beyond the Beans, Above the Box.’’ She grabs a glass tumbler from under the bar, then reaches for a crystal decanter of something amber. “And do you want to hear something crazy? It wasn’t a printing error!”

My head spins as I absorb what she just told me. “Really?” I’m afraid to say too much, but I eke out a question. “Then what was it?”

“Damned if I know!” Marjorie pours liquid from the decanter into the tumbler, then throws it back neat in one gulp. “It disappeared from existing copies that had been printed over a year ago. Not only that, but it vanished from every edition the publisher can locate that was printed before that, dating back twenty years.”

I don’t have to pretend to be amazed. “How is that even possible?”

Marjorie pours another drink. “You tell me!”

I stare dumbly, not sure if it’s just a rhetorical expression or she’s given me an order.

She throws back the drink and pours another. “I can see how someone might infiltrate a printing company and sabotage a press run. I can see how they might use a computer virus to wipe out electronic copies. But what I can’t see…” She drains the tumbler once more. “…is how they could blank out every existing paper and audio copy in every bookstore, library, archive, and private collection in the world!” She reaches for the decanter again. “But that’s what we’re dealing with here.”

Again, I keep my silence. The truth is, even if I wanted to explain, I don’t understand how it happened any better than she does. There’s only one thing I’m sure about at this point: the fact that this story disappeared the day after I read it to Ralph Lang is not a coincidence.

“Oh, and I didn’t even tell you about the novel yet.” Marjorie pours one more drink and caps the decanter.

“Novel?”

“Remember Untitled?” She downs her drink while I nod. “Good, because I doubt you’ll ever get to read it again. It’s gone, baby. Every copy of every edition we can lay our hands on is blank, except for the title.”

I feel dizzy as I think about how this is not a coincidence, either. “But how?”

“All-out war on the works of Ralph Lang, that’s how. An unprecedented campaign against one of the greatest writers of our age.” Marjorie smacks the tumbler down so hard that I’m worried it might break. “Which is why we’ve got the man himself on lockdown.”

I don’t tell her how little that will help. “So what do we do now?”

Marjorie jabs a finger in my direction. “You keep up the treatment. It’s more important than ever, especially if we keep losing the books Ralph’s already written.”

Somehow, I don’t think she’d agree if she knew the full story. “Okay.”

“In fact, you’re just as important as he is right now. You’re on lockdown, too.”

The first thing I do when I get to Ralph’s sunroom is go straight for the books. They’re right where I left them, in stacks on the table by the picture window.

Breathless, I grab the one on top of the shortest stack. I open it right to the middle, and I let out a gasp. The pages are blank. The entire text of the novel they once contained is gone. Untitled is nonexistent.

Just then, I hear Ralph’s voice. “Hello, Doctor Annie. Looks like you’re as eager as I am to get on with the day’s reading.”

“Just give me a minute, Ralph.” Next, I grab Sorghum and Gomorra and crack it open to where “Mauvette Makes Good” should be. Only it’s not there anymore, either.

“What are we reading today?” asks Ralph. “I can’t wait to remember more of my life.”

I don’t answer. I’m too busy pawing through Foundlings and Other Curses, looking for “Beyond the Beans, Above the Box.” As with the other two volumes, I find nothing but blank pages where the text I read aloud ought to be.

An icy chill sweeps through me as I put down the book. I’ve seen the evidence, I’ve held it in my hand; I’ve directly witnessed the cause-and-effect that seems to be the only explanation. Yet it still doesn’t seem possible.

“Doctor Annie?” says Ralph. “Is something wrong?”

It depends on your point of view. Ralph, who lost his memories to Alzheimer’s, gets them back when he hears his work read aloud. That in itself is within the realm of possibility…that hearing his familiar prose triggers some kind of healing and reawakening deep within his mind.

But that’s where the rational world ends. Because apparently, when he accesses lost memories via his read-aloud stories or novels, those stories or novels physically disappear from the world.

I lean on the table for a moment, taking deep breaths to steady myself. I need to regain my composure and reassert my professional demeanor if I intend to continue treatment. But is that what I intend to do? Is that what I should do?

“Doctor Annie?” I hear him getting up from his recliner.

“Hold on, Ralph.” I turn and head for the patio doors. “I need a little fresh air right now.”

Out on the patio, the morning sun is bright, the sea breeze bracing. An armed guard with a German Shepherd looks my way as he strolls past on the beach down below.

For the first time in a long time, I feel paralyzed, my purpose in question. This whole project with Ralph was meant to be my crowning achievement, the one that would restore his battered mind and reinforce my preeminence in the field of dementia remediation.

For a while, it seemed I was succeeding beyond my most optimistic projections. But now, I’m in unknown territory, facing an ethical dilemma I’ve never imagined. Should I keep reading him his work, knowing it will keep disappearing from the world?

“Doctor Annie?” Ralph walks out and stands beside me at the railing. “What’s going on?”

As I look over at him, I wonder if he ought to know the truth. Should I tell him about his work’s disappearance?

“Come on, Annie. You can tell me.” The look in his eyes is warm, caring, and guileless. Maybe he deserves better than ignorance.

After all, it’s his work at stake, isn’t it? His work and his memories. Shouldn’t he have a say in the outcome?

“I know this might sound crazy.” That’s how I start to tell him. “I don’t even have a good explanation for it…but I can’t deny it’s happening.”

Ralph frowns. “What’s that?”

I take a deep breath, carefully choosing my next words. “When I read you one of your stories or novels, it somehow disappears, Ralph. It’s erased from the world.”

Ralph’s frown deepens. “Erased?”

I nod. “Every copy—whether it’s paper, electronic, or audio—goes blank except for the title.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Ask Marjorie,” I tell him. “Ask your publisher.”

His frown becomes a scowl. “How is that even possible?”

“I have no idea, but I can tell you, it’s really happening.” I nod toward the picture window, where the stacks of books are visible. “Even the books in your room. Whatever I’ve read has gone blank.”

He stares into space for a moment, rubbing a hand over his mouth and chin. “So as I’m getting my memories back, my work is vanishing from the face of the Earth.”

“Exactly. It’s a tradeoff, apparently.” I pause, watching as a seagull drifts lazily past on the ocean breeze. “So what do you want to do next?”

He looks at me with one eyebrow raised. “Next?”

“Do you want me to keep reading, knowing it will likely make more of your work disappear?”

Ralph narrows his eyes and turns his gaze to the beach, where another security guard is walking past. Little does the guard know, as he watches for interlopers, that the true threat is right here on the patio, standing beside Ralph.

After all, I’m the one who gives him the choice. “It’s up to you, Ralph,” I tell him. “It’s your writing, your legacy.”

I watch him as the wind ruffles his hair, and I wonder what I would do in his place. Would I salvage what was left of my work, though it would mean passing up the chance to restore my forgotten past? Or would I throw the work away to regain what was lost?

“You’re asking if I want you to keep reading?” asks Ralph. “Even if it means more of my work disappears?”

“That’s right.”

“Hell, yes.” He flashes me a grin. “That’s what I call a real no-brainer.”

I abide by his decision. I read to him through the day, chipping away at the next novel in the stack, Hammurabi’s Loophole.

I’d forgotten what a great book it is; when we reach the part where the main character, Attorney Peter Priest, vows revenge against God for the loss of his wife and child, I get a chill up my spine. Then I hesitate, wondering if I should stop reading and save this great work for the world…but Ralph urges me on, and I keep going.

We make it halfway through the book by dinner, then pick it back up afterward. Now that I’m trapped in the house under armed guard, it’s not like I’m in a hurry to end our session.

I give Ralph his scheduled injection and keep reading long into the night. I read, he listens, and Hammurabi’s Loophole melts away.

Literally. We finish the book at two a.m., then discuss his latest retrieved memories and go to bed (he in his bedroom, escorted by Nurse Joe, and me in a guest room down the hall). When I pick up the book the next morning, every page of the text is blank. Marjorie confirms it when I go downstairs for breakfast: Hammurabi’s Loophole has been deleted everywhere.

And the world has taken notice in a big way. Marjorie turns on the TV, and we watch the latest reports. People the world over are scrambling to protect Ralph’s works, locking away the ones that are left…committing them to memory, even. Groups of memorization specialists have gathered in secure facilities worldwide, stuffing their minds with every bit of Ralph’s prose that they can hold.

Even as we watch, and Marjorie fires down belts of bourbon, I know it’s all for nothing. Ralph’s body of work is doomed.

In the days and nights that follow, Ralph and I plow our way through his backlist like there’s no tomorrow. I read it all in chronological order, greater and lesser works alike. I read until I lose my voice or Ralph falls asleep, though I almost always lose my voice first.

We push ourselves to the limit, I think, because of our unspoken fears—that the magic will stop before we finish, or Marjorie will somehow wise up and shut down our operation.

Every time I talk to her, she’s more desperate and irrational, because Ralph’s body of work is shrinking more with each passing day. None of the efforts to save it have made any difference. Sealed vaults and elaborate backup systems can’t stop the deletions. Movie and TV adaptations go blank globally, whether they’re in the form of film reels, digital files, DVDs, or videotapes. Words chiseled in stone disappear as easily as those printed on paper; even the memorization experts forget everything once I’ve read it aloud to Ralph.

But Ralph and I don’t let that stop us.

Two weeks in, he’s a different man, a man full of memories and self-assurance…but it still isn’t enough. The stack of unread books on the table by the picture window has dwindled away to almost nothing, yet he doesn’t hesitate to beg me to keep reading.

He wants all of it. Every last bite, no matter the cost to his legacy or his fans or the culture of the world.

Which is why, as we get closer to the end, I keep putting off reading one particular book, pushing it further out of chronological order. It’s Forever and Evan, which won the Pulitzer Prize twenty-five years ago. Pretty much everyone calls it his greatest work, and I agree; it’s the one that changed my life, after all. When I first read it, I was a twenty-year-old basket case contemplating suicide…but the story of Evan Barlowe and his struggle with depression made me realize I had something to live for. It gave me a new mindset, one that enabled me to finish college, then med school, then move on to become a psychiatrist and dementia expert who could help others as Ralph had helped me…even, one day, help Ralph himself.

I don’t know if I can let go of that book. I don’t know if I should, given the difference it’s made in my life and the lives of so many others. But its turn is coming soon; it’s at the bottom of the stack, but the stack is disappearing fast.

Trying to delay the inevitable, I slow the pace of my reading. I tell Ralph I’m wearing out and need more rest. I say I can’t keep reading until all hours of the night.

He accepts my explanation, but it doesn’t buy me much time. Soon enough, the only book standing between me and Forever and Evan is one slim volume of stories—Coup de Grâce, his last collection before the Alzheimer’s struck.

So we’re almost down to the moment I’ve been dreading. Even as I read Coup de Grâce, all I can think about is Forever and Evan and the fact that the words I read are counting down what might be its final hours on Earth.

“Your time is up.” Those are Marjorie’s first words when she corners me in the hall on my way to Ralph’s room. “We need results, Doctor Delacroix…on paper. We need new books.” She nods grimly. “God knows the old ones are just about gone.”

I keep my best poker face in place as I listen. Getting new writing out of Ralph has been the last thing on my mind lately.

“I’m dead serious.” Marjorie wags a finger at me. “I want him writing today, if he isn’t already.”

He isn’t, but I keep it to myself. “I can’t guarantee anything,” I tell her. “The creative process is a delicate one, especially in someone who has just recovered from an extreme neurological disorder, which in itself is…”

Marjorie jabs my left shoulder with her finger. “Everything’s riding on what happens in there.” She points at the door to the sunroom. “My career, his career…your career.” She shoots me a nasty glare. “We’ve got about a book and a half left of his entire body of work, and I’m sure it’s only a matter of time until that’s gone, too. Our only hope is whatever new product you can squeeze out of him. So get squeezing.”

Marjorie isn’t kidding about time running out. She’s not kidding about my career riding on the outcome, either. If every last bit of Ralph’s work disappears—including Forever and Evan—and I can’t get him to write something new, I’ll have failed. It won’t matter that I’ve restored huge portions of his memory; the writing, not the man, is what matters most to the world.

Now I just have to decide which part of him matters most to me.

As I read the last story from Coup de Grâce, titled “Neverwaster,” I am very aware of that very last book on the table behind me.

I stumble more times getting through “Neverwaster” than I have while reading any other story or book to Ralph. The problem is, my mind keeps drifting to Forever and Evan, wondering what the hell I am going to do with it. Wishing I could put off dealing with it a little bit longer.

But soon enough, I can’t. The second I finish “Neverwaster” and close the book, Ralph points at the table by the window. “Looks like you’re almost done reading,” he says.

I wasn’t sure until just now what I was going to do. The decision, when it arrives, surprises me a little. “I’ve been thinking.” I get up and walk over to the book table, where I put down Coup de Grâce but don’t pick up Forever and Evan. “I wonder if you might consider leaving one book unread.”

He looks amused. “Now why would I do that?”

I spread my arms wide. “For posterity’s sake. So your work isn’t completely forgotten.”

Ralph brushes a hand through the air as if he’s swatting a gnat. “I don’t care about any of that. Not anymore.” Though, physically, he’s still an old man, his voice carries the certainty and forcefulness of a much younger one. “Posterity doesn’t matter if you don’t have your memories, Annie.”

“Still.” I walk to the patio doors and look out. A steady stream of guards patrol the beach in pairs, the most guards I’ve seen out there yet. Ralph is a more precious commodity than ever, now that his work is so rare. “You’ve come so far. You’ve regained almost everything you lost. Would it hurt to leave one book intact for the world to remember you by? Especially the book that won the Pulitzer Prize?”

“I don’t care about the world. All I want is what’s in here.” Ralph taps his right temple with an index finger.

“But you’ll never get all of it back,” I tell him. “Whatever happened when you weren’t writing, you still won’t remember it. If there’s no text for me to read, that part of your life remains a blank.” I turn and meet his gaze. “What difference will it make if you leave one more part forgotten?”

He shakes his head at me. “You’ve never had Alzheimer’s. You don’t know what it’s like to have it all slip away.” Suddenly, he storms to the table by the window and grabs Forever and Evan. “I want it all.” He stomps over and shoves the book into my hands. “I want every last bit of it, whatever the price.”

His urgency startles me. I wonder if this demanding, explosive Ralph is the closest yet to his complete, original self. How much further will he go in this direction? Maybe filling in more blanks in his memory isn’t such a great idea, after all.

Yet how can I do otherwise? He craves the scraps of the past that are rightfully his, and how can I deny him? As a doctor, isn’t it my responsibility to continue his treatment, to do everything in my power to restore his faculties?

“Well?” He nods at the book in my hands.

I hesitate. Once this last book is gone, there can be no turning back. Whatever Ralph might do in the future, the greatest accomplishments of his life thus far will be lost forever.

“Please.” He reaches out and gently places one hand on the book. “Please read it.”

“I don’t know if I should,” I tell him.

“Come on.” He puts his other hand on my shoulder. “Please.”

My uncertainty holds me in place like a butterfly pinned to a board. “Maybe I don’t want to be the person who destroys your legacy single-handedly.”

“Okay then. What about this?” Smiling, Ralph takes my hand and says something that changes the equation, something that illuminates a possibility I hadn’t considered. “What if we do it together?”

So this is what we do.

Ralph and I step outside and pull two patio chairs next to each other. Then I have to go back inside to get his reading glasses, retrieving them from the little table beside his recliner.

After I bring out the glasses and help him put them on, we sit down side-by-side, holding Forever and Evan between us. We open the book in the bright Malibu sunshine and turn to page one to begin our experiment.

But before we can take the next step, I hesitate. “What if this disrupts the process?” I ask. “What if it doesn’t bring back any memories for you?”

Ralph smiles reassuringly. “Then you’ll just have to read it all again, by yourself, while I listen. Think you can stand it?”

It’s my favorite book of all time, and he knows it. “Of course I can.” I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, feeling relieved. Feeling like the two of us can handle anything.

“Ready?” He nods encouragingly.

“Yes.” I raise the book higher, cracking it wider so the opening page is clear to see.

And then we start to read.

I go first, reading the beautiful prologue set during springtime in the mountains of North Carolina. When I finish with that, I give him a nod. He clears his throat, then picks up where I left off, reading chapter one aloud.

When he’s done, I read chapter two. We go on like that for hours, reading alternating chapters, our voices blending with the roar and whoosh of the crashing surf along the beach.

It’s one of the most wonderful experiences of my life, reading my favorite book with the man who wrote it. Our elbows and shoulders touch as we speak those perfect passages into the world once more; in a way, it becomes the most intimate and transcendent act I could ever imagine.

Though it’s true, we don’t know what will happen next as a result of our reading together. Have we disrupted whatever magic brought back his memories during the earlier readings? Or maybe we’ve just corrected whatever process has been wiping his work from the face of the Earth. Maybe our combined efforts will bring back everything still forgotten and save this final book of his from extinction in the bargain.

Whatever the outcome, I will treasure this experience for as long as I live. Especially when we get to his finest chapter, the one that changes everything for the book’s protagonist. It’s Ralph’s turn to read…but he just nods at me. He lets me take his turn, as if he senses how much this passage means to me. As if he knows, though I’ve never told him, that this is the part that turned my life around.

Then, as I pour my heart into reading it, he closes his eyes and turns his good left ear toward me. Smiling blissfully, he basks in the flow of words from my lips as if they are the lips of whatever muse has been whispering in his ear all his life, whether he could always hear her or not.