“A… you know, a point of entry,” he says before he can chicken out. He starts to fidget. “Something. A question, or—a beginning, where to go first.”
Michael glances up, eyes scanning the ceiling aimlessly. He sounds like someone who's busy walking across a highway in a thick fog. “First, you know—before I started really remembering, I was remembering remembering. Being in the tenement as a kid, it was strange, and I was always… waiting, I guess. Hearing things, couldn’t sleep, scared. Even when the whole, I mean—I’m not sure what happened really, with Mars… But even when that started, for a while I’d still see it, I’d remember it.”
He looks down again, at the steam coming off the cups of tea. “I guess… I guess that’s first.”