Page 24 of Meet Me on Greenwood

"Tulsa." I paused. "At least, that’s where I was before I lost consciousness."

"And do you know where you are right now? What kind of place is this?"

"A house." I said, realizing he was giving me the MOCA, a dementia test that I often used as a screener for my clients.

"Can you repeat these three words back to me? Rutabaga. Suspenders. Hallelujah."

I repeated all three and Houston made a sound that might have been a laugh. My eyes shot to him and he sobered as we continued the screening. Perry asked me to draw a clock with the time, and to recall the three words again, but backwards this time.

"Sharp as a tack," Perry said, sitting back with a satisfied expression.

Houston pushed off the fireplace and came to stand at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, watching me with that steady, unhurried attention that I was already beginning to recognize. It seemed like the way he moved through the world.

"Last question," Houston said quietly. "What is today's date?"

The room went very still as I looked around at the dated furnishings, like something out of a period magazine—the antique instruments, the uncertainty around cell phones, and even the clothes the men wore, which consisted of suspenders, trousers, and fedoras.

"Where is my phone?" I asked, suddenly patting the bed like it might be by my side. "My phone. I had it before."

The pair looked at one another, and Perry asked, "Why would you have a telephone with you on the road?"

"I—"

"The only thing you had on you was this," Houston offered, handing me my phone. For a moment, I was relieved thinking I could turn it on and figure out if the ORI had brought me back into someone’s memory. At this point, it was the only explanation I could think of. I clicked the power button, but the red battery light blinked, and the device shut off.

NO! I clicked it several more times, but it was completely dead.

"I don’t know the date," I said, finally. "Could you tell me?"

The doctors exchanged quick glances, having a silent but urgent conversation. before Houston finally turned to me. "It is March sixteenth."

"What year?" I asked.

He paused. "It is 1920."

10

Houston

Martin Opposed Jackson Because Star Was For Him

Gema. I was glad to hear a confirmation of her name. It suited her. I wasn't sure what I'd been expecting, but I was struck by how different she seemed now, awake and alert, then she had been in those first anxious hours we'd spent watching over her. Her eyes were watchful and self-assured, holding deep intelligence in their dark brown depths. She’d been exhausted by the assessment, so we’d left her to sleep.

"She claimed she’s a doctor," Lettie said, following us to the kitchen.

"Would you like a glass of bourbon for the road?" I asked.

"Don’t mind if I do," Perry answered.

I unlocked the cabinet that held the forbidden spirits. I didn’t drink as I never liked the way it made me feel, but with prohibition, it was a nice treat for the guests that occasionally stopped by.

Perry’s eyes shot up. "Is that M&M Reserve? I haven’t seen that in years. How did you get your hands on it?"

"I have my ways," I said.

Perry looked around the room as if the real answer to his question would suddenly appear. He took a sip from the cup I poured, taking his time, savoring it. "This is much better than the swill I prescribe to the poor souls who can’t live without it."

I shook my head. It was a wonder that the government allowed companies like Brown-Forman to operate. Prohibition had shut down nearly every distillery in the country, yet somehow Brown-Forman's whiskey still moved through pharmacies and doctor's offices under the guise of "medicinal spirits," one of the few legal loopholes left standing while everyone else's business dried up or went underground. I was convinced politicians had a stake in the company, propping up their permit while the rest of the market splintered into bootleggers and speakeasies, giving Brown-Forman something close to a monopoly on whatever alcohol could still be sold within the law.