Again she nods. Again he’s fishing. Everyone knows something that begins with M. I’ve suffered a loss of my memory. There’s the M I’ve lost, putz.

“Michael?” he asks.

She nods. OK, that was good. But still, everyone knows a Michael. I know seventeen Michaels, four of whom died recently, two of whom were recently lost while camping, one of whom is in hiding. If he had said Melchior and been correct, I might’ve been impressed. Might’ve. But I know six Melchiors, three of whom are fairly recently dead, so even then.