Memories were funny things. Tricky and unreliable. And then, all of a sudden, they were overwhelming.

Or maybe that was just Diana.

To her credit, she was a consummate performer. Her fingers never strayed from the guitar. And if one or two notes came out funny, well. Who could tell? The song was backwards as the performer's mind.

"Malcolm Reed," she said, testing out the name like she was trying to learn another language. Or, more appropriately, re-learn an old, forgotten dialect.