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highly recommend you not exasperate his situation. He isn’t in the least bit dangerous, but riling him into questioning his own sanity will only result in pointless paranoia. If he says he is a Salé pirate, he is. Do you understand?”
Heaven preserve her soul. What was she getting herself into? Whilst, yes, she wanted to help, and the man seemed infinitely divine on the street, she didn’t know who this Brit was or what he was capable of. What if he’d already been deranged prior to being clipped by the omni and his so-called “memory loss” was, in fact, who he really was?
“Abide by calling him Robinson Crusoe,” he continued. “He prefers it.”
She blinked. “I thought you had said he didn’t know his name.”
“He doesn’t. He thinks Robinson Crusoe is his name.”
She squinted, not understanding his point. “Beggin’ your pardon, but Robinson Crusoe sounds like a very legitimate name to me.”
He blinked rapidly. “You obviously haven’t read the book.”
Now he really wasn’t making any sense. “What book?”
Dr. Carter leaned toward her, awkwardly refusing to meet her gaze. “Mrs. Milton.”
“Yes?”
“Robinson Crusoe is the name of a character from a book. ’Tis a story decades old and well-known amongst boys and men alike. The main character is a sailor whose ship is overtaken by Salé pirates who force him into becoming a slave. He manages to escape, only to be shipwrecked on an island frequented by cannibals. So you see…our Salé slave and pirate thinks he is this character. He thinks he is Robinson Crusoe.”
Her eyed widened. “That doesn’t sound like memory loss to me. He sounds…deranged.”
“I know. Believe me, I know. But he isn’t.” He shifted toward her. “In trying to understand his most unusual condition, I presented him a map of the world and asked him where we were and where he lived. Imagine my astonishment when he points to France and mentions rue des Francs-Bourgeois in Paris. ’Tis a street I know very well, given my wife’s parents had lived on that same street prior to the Revolution that pushed them out. ’Tis still an impressive area frequented by those of affluence and one Robinson Crusoe would have never frequented. I have written to his address to inquire, but without a name or house number, it may lead nowhere.
“So you see, he may not remember who he is, but he still remembers factual things outside of this Crusoe. Factual things that must pertain to his own life. I have therefore concluded that his condition isn’t one of full-blown fantasy but an inability to decipher between fact and fiction. That doesn’t make him deranged. It only makes him…unreliable. Something to keep in mind whilst you board him.” He plucked up a piece of stationery from his cluttered desk, along with an ink-slathered quill. “I will require your name and address before you depart with him.”
She angled toward him. “Don’t you think that a man who claims to have met cannibals is a walkin’ liability I ought to avoid? Regardless of if he knows life outside of this—this Crusoe? What if he should eat me and all of my neighbors in honor of his cannibal friends? What then, sir?”
Dr. Carter burst into laughter and caught himself against the desk, eyeing her. “He won’t—” He laughed again, shaking his head. “No. He won’t. Not this man.”
She set her hands on her hips. “I’m bein’ quite serious and I wish to Joseph you’d be, too. I’ve seen far too much to question what is or isn’t rational. Men are never rational, sir. They only pretend to be and I’m rather worried I may end up swimmin’ in my own blood.”
His features sagged. “I cannot predict what he will or will not do, but the man is genuinely compassionate and protective of others. Throughout his entire stay, he’s done nothing but lecture us on our inability to tend to patients and is always getting out of bed to assist others in the hall, despite having orders that he rest. If