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I SAW WHAT I LOOKED LIKE. I SAW MY FACE. MY body. And with it, memories of earlier stages of my life. Me a year ago. Me three years ago. Me as a little girl taking gymnastics.

My locker combination was 13-36-9.

My grade point average was 4.0.

I was five feet, five inches tall and hoped against all odds to grow taller.

I weighed 121 pounds.

I knew my Social Security number.

I knew my student ID number.

I knew my driver’s license number, which surprised me because I didn’t think I’d ever memorized that.

It was as if every number I’d ever known was coming bubbling up into my brain. My home was at number 72. My birthday was July 26. My phone number . . .

“That’s not what matters,” I said.

“I thought you wanted to see your memories,” Messenger said.

“Those aren’t the memories. Those aren’t what I need. Did you do that to me? Can you turn my memory on and off?”

He surprised me by giving me a direct answer. “Yes.”

“That’s not fair!” The words were out of my mouth before I’d even begun to think about them.

“Fair.” He said the word with something like reverence. Like the word had deep significance to him. “I’m sorry you find me unfair, but I think you are mistaken. You don’t yet understand, and whether it is fair or not in your judgment, I will hold your memories. I will hold them back.”

“What? Who says? I mean, what?”

“It’s part of the deal you made,” Messenger said.

I froze.

“What?”

He did not repeat himself. So I did.

“What? What do you mean, it’s the deal I made?”

“You must trust me, Mara.”

“Trust you? I don’t even know your name. I don’t even know what you are. I don’t know where we are or why. Trust you?”

“Yes, Mara. You must trust me.”

I stared at him, and this time I did not lower my eyes but met his gaze. “What is this about?” I asked.

He could have easily sidestepped such a poorly phrased question. But he did not. Instead he chose to answer, emphasis always on “chose” because though I didn’t yet know it, I was entirely in his power. At that moment, and for a long while after as well, I belonged to Messenger. I was his to control.

“This,” he said without the least drama or emphasis, “is about true and false. Right and wrong. Good and evil. And justice, Mara. This is about justice. And balance. And . . .” He nodded as if to himself rather than to me. “. . . and redemption.”

I said nothing. What is there to be said after such a speech?

He seemed vaguely amused that he had silenced me. And he took the opportunity to point a finger and invite my gaze to turn in the direction he indicated.

“It is also, at this moment, about Samantha Early.”