I had been at the wrong baggage claim. Confused, I looked around me. I didn’t remember checking the carousel number. I also didn’t remember parking the car, and yet there I was, holding a ticket to the parking structure with the location “C2” written on it in my own handwriting. This sort of thing was happening to me frequently: snippets of time were lost here and there, and even as I compensated in order to hide it, it kept getting worse. I had even gone to see a doctor about it, who had examined me for all of forty-five seconds, told me I was working too hard, and then wrote me a refillable
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