had been Michael, Edgar, George, Louis . . . He’d rotated through a handful of names for decades. The old driver’s license in his wallet said Samuel James Miller, an identity he would 16soon need to abandon because the date of birth printed there was 1943 and—at least until the curse was broken—Brigan would forever look twenty-five, not eighty-one. But right now, here with her, it hadn’t even occurred to him to prevaricate.
