We sat down at the long table: the man at the head, the woman and I opposite one another on benches.
“My name is Sam Egan. This is my wife, Sarah. What is your name?”
“Renee.”
They looked at me: obviously not a common name around here.
“Twining,” I added, as if that would make a difference.
“Well, Miss Twining, how is it I came to find you lying in the middle of my ranch?” Mr. Egan asked, rather sarcastically.
Sarah frowned at him.
And then my mind began to spin. What should I say? The truth? Where I was from? What I thought had happened? Should I ask if I were dreaming? Or dead?
“I don’t know,” I heard myself carefully reply.
Before I could think of something else to say, Sam blurted out, “Where are you from, Miss?”
“Agoura Hills, California.”
Oops! Should I have said the state? By the look on their faces probably not.
“California?” Mrs. Egan repeated.
“Then how did you get all the way to Arizona about a hundred miles from the nearest train depot?” Mr. Egan prodded.
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