“Hello, Mirtha,” he greeted her, approaching the front desk.

Surprised, Mirtha Sandoval let go of the chocolate cookie she was eating, as if she got caught red-handed committing a crime. And while swallowing what she already had in her mouth, she squealed with happiness. Some crumbs flew over the open packet of cookies.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!”

The woman left the reception, fixing her hair. She still used it short and puffed, only that now she no longer bothered to dye the gray ones. Uri had known her all his life, and he’d never seen her with another hairstyle.

“Long time no see!” she greeted and gave him a big hug.

Uri smiled but kindly moved away from her.

“Easy,” he said, and rushed to explain, “I just left the hospital yesterday.”

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Mirtha let him go and looked at him in terror. “Hospital?! What happened?!”

“It was just a big little scare,” clarified Sarah Lanen, who was with Uri. “Luckily, now our patient here is just fine.”

Mirtha made a gesture of relief and then greeted Sarah; she was not half as effusive as she’d been with Uri, though.

“Hello, dear,” she said and turned her attention back to the young man. “You know? One of these days I’m gonna have to visit the hospital, too.” She rubbed her back with an exaggerated grimace of pain. “My back; it’s getting worse and worse.”

Mirtha Sandoval had been working at the front desk of the Proxima City’s Central Orphanage for decades; the same number of years she had been complaining about her back pains, as Uri and Sarah could recall. However, to be honest, exaggerated comments about physical ailments always gained a more real nuance as age progressed.

Suddenly, a group of children scurried past them.

“Hey, you little devils! No running this way!” Mirtha scolded them without anger in her voice.

The children continued as if no one had said anything. They rushed down the hallway, laughing at loud, and reached the building’s inner courtyard.

Uri followed them with his eyes, and remembering how many times he had played in that same place, took a mental tour of the circuit that the children should be taken now. The hallway, the inner courtyard, then the basketball court, the bathrooms, and the classrooms. Everything was there, in his mind, and as far as he could see, so it was on the physical plane. Everything looked the same; painted with other colors, but still the same.

“What brings you guys here?” Mirtha’s question brought him back to reality.

Uri put on the smile with which he always got a ‘yes,’ and spoke to her in her ear.

“I want to see my admission papers to this beautiful place. If I may,” he said.

“Again?” she wondered. “Oh, honey; we’ve been through this a few years ago, remember?”

“I know, Mirtha, but it’s not just a phase this time. Trust me,” he excused himself. “C’mon, what do you say, huh?” He winked at her. “This will be our secret… Once again.”

Mirtha put on a serious face. Having her up close, Uri took notice that—despite leaving their trail, especially around her eyes—the years had been kind to her.

“All right. I’ll give you the key to the storeroom,” Mirtha whispered. “Juan must be fixing the air conditioning in Ward 5. If he sees you, you tell him you’re gonna get some things I asked for, okay?”

“You chill. I know how to treat that cranky old man.”

“And do it before the director arrives. You know how she gets when someone goes in there.”

Uri nodded.

Mirtha returned to her place behind the desk, opened the drawer, and pulled out a key. Before handing it over, however, she made a stop gesture as if she had remembered something.

“But first—” she said. Opened another drawer, withdrew the plastic card of a holo-magazine, which after a slight touch revealed to be one of the Loud copies that had Uri as a cover boy, and passed it to him along with a pen. “I’m gonna meet the girls and play cards this afternoon. I want your autograph to rub in their faces. That bunch of old ladies don’t believe the famous Uri O22 lived here; y’know?”

Uri blushed. Sarah had to look the other way to disguise laughter.

‘To Mirtha, the most beautiful lady in the Central Orphanage, and the woman who most often gave me a flea in my ear in my life. Fondly, Uri,’ he signed on the opposite side of the card.

“I can’t wait to see Clotilde’s face,” Mirtha chuckled. “She’s got a poster of you from when you used to model… you know, in your scanties. She says it’s his daughter’s, but it’s in her room.”

“Mirtha—” he interrupted her, and his tone of voice was so serious that it put a veil of shadows on the woman. “I know I’ve asked you a thousand times, but…”

The woman shook her head before he finished the sentence with a compassionate gesture that seemed to ask: ‘Why do you insist on this thing if you already know everything I know?’

“No, no, honey,” she said. “I’d only been here a few weeks when they brought you in, but I remember no one at the hospital could explain well how you got there. The nurse who found you was alone in the ward, or so she said when she heard a baby cry and…”

“—And she went to see, and there I was, in one of the beds,” Uri finished.

Mirtha nodded as if to say, ‘See? You already know the story.’

“Back then, it was easier for things like that to happen, y’know?” she added and pointed out the security camera that was above their heads. “These things weren’t so common.”

“Hey! And do you know if any children who have come from across the ocean were ever admitted here? From Markabia, for example, or from some other part of the eastern continent,” he asked. “I think my parents could have come from there.”

Mirtha shrugged. There was genuine ignorance in that gesture; exactly what Uri expected, not what he needed or what he wanted. So, he didn’t insist, took the key, and along with Sarah, went to the storeroom.

After a while, they both got out of there with the same amount of information they had entered with.

They returned to the front desk and handed the key back to Mirtha, who again dropped the chocolate cookie she was eating as if it had been a red-hot iron.

“Remember what we talked about your sugar levels, Mirtha,” Sarah scolded her, albeit gently.

“I’m sorry, dear. It’s anxiety,” the woman excused herself. Then, she said goodbye to them with another hug, a softer one this time; and as if she were an extremely proud grandma of her grandson’s accomplishments, she raised the signed Loud card and laughed. She looked more like a little girl than a sixty-something-year-old woman.

“Mr. Kelsey, good afternoon. This is Uri O22. Do you remember me?”

“Who?”

“Uri O22 from the Proxima Orphanage. I’d contacted you a few years ago; I don’t know if you remember.”

“Oh! Yes, yes…”

“You worked at the reception in the Central Hospital of Proxima when I was found. Do you remember my case?”

“Hmm… Haven’t we talked about it already, boy?”

“Uh… Yes, yes. It’s just that… Well, you know, I met my brother, and he lives—Well, he lived in a city, Markabia.”

“Oh! Congratulations! Glad to hear that.”

“Thank you. Mr. Kelsey, since you filled out thousands of forms in your day, I was wondering if you perhaps remember admitting someone from there or from some other part of the eastern continent. Not just abandoned children, I mean, anyone.”

“Hmm, no. I’m afraid not, boy. I don’t know if things are different today, but at that time, there were a lot of diplomatic problems with the authorities from there.”

“I get it. Never mind. Thank you for your attention, Mr. Kelsey. Goodbye.”

“Mrs. Page, good afternoon. This is Uri O22. Remember me?”

“Do I! The little kid who always made the girls cry.”

“Yes, yes. That one!” Uri faked a chuckle.

“Are you still showing yourself half-naked in the pictures?”

“No, no, Mrs. Page. I don’t model anymore.”

“Fine. I’m happy to hear that. You were gonna end badly if you went down that path, kid.”

“I know, I know. Mrs. Page, I wanted to know if you remember anything about my case. Something about the city of Markabia. You see; something has come up recently and—”

“No, no. I remember nothing about my time at the orphanage. My memory isn’t the same as before. Sorry.”

Liar, Uri thought. You remember I made the girls cry, but suddenly your memory isn’t the same as before?

“I’m sorry, kid. But you can talk to Mirtha from reception; maybe she knows something.”

“All right, I’ll do it. I appreciate your attention, Mrs. Page. Have a nice day.”

“Goodbye. And remember never to take pictures of yourself naked again. You’re worth more than that.”

“I will, Mrs. Page. I will. Thank you.”

“Yes?”

“Mrs. Rugertoff?”

“Who is it?”

That definitely was not Mrs. Hilda Rugertoff. It was the voice of a jumpy young woman.

“Good afternoon. My name is Uri O22—”

“You’re one of her kids from the orphanage, right?”

“Yes, you can say that. Mrs. Hilda was the director during my time in there.”

“I knew it! Proxima act on regulations for Orphanages and Foundlings. Article 986. I’m studying law, y’know? We touched on that subject recently.

“Uh… That’s nice of…”

“The great economic collapse of 2060 brought a great number of suicides and broken families, causing an increase in the number of abandoned children. The law says that the name of the foundling will be assigned by the person who has assisted him at the time of admission, and will carry a code as a last name until the day someone claims him or someone adopts him. Is that so, or am I wrong?”

“Uh… You did study a lot, all right.”

“I did!”

“Good, good. You see; I wanted to get in touch with Mrs. Rugertoff…”

“I’m sorry. My grandma passed away a few years ago.”

“Oh! I’m so sorry.”

“No biggie. My name is Valeria. Hey, if you’re interested in participating in a dissertation on politics about the city’s orphanages, I can call you when—”

“I’m sorry, Valeria, but right now… I’m with something else here. I’d be happy to do it next time, though.”

“All right. No problem.”

“Nice to meet you, Valeria. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Ur—!”

Click! Communication’s over. And along with it, his desire to keep looking into his past.