He shrugged his thin shoulders.

“The lady who handled the paper boxes said that was my very first name.”

“What paper boxes?” I asked.

He pointed to a cardboard file box I had carried in from my truck, and took two quick steps back from it, as if it might bite.

“A brown box like that one,” he whispered.

I knelt to his level.

“Who was that lady, son?” “I don’t know her real name,” he said.

“What did she look like?” And he described her: short blonde hair, the smell of vanilla lotion, always carrying thick folders.