Exposed
“I whisper, reading. “Isabel.”
Is this me? Isabel?
How did Logan find this?
I trace the letters, imagining that I am able to feel the impressions of the pen on the paper, imagining the way his strong fingers gripped the pen and sliced firm concise strokes to create these letters. Twenty-six letters, simple strokes of ink on pulped and flattened wood. All to create a name. An identity.
Isabel.
I stare at the paper, for how long I do not know.
And then I discover something else written in the bottom right-hand corner, printed small.
Ten numbers.
212-555-3233. Beside it, two more letters: LR.
His phone number?
I repeat the numbers in my mind until they are meaningless, shapes in my mind, sounds subvocalized, semantic satiation. Those ten numerals are burned into my brain.
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