"He mentioned you while we were in camp."
"Did he?"
"He called you Cindy."
For a long moment she looked puzzled, and then her face cleared. "Oh, that. You know, I'd just about forgotten that. It was sort of a gag. In that eighth grade we had a teacher who was all hopped up about class activities. I was the rebel. She stuck me in a play as Cinderella. Timmy was the prince. He called me Cindy for quite a while after that. A year maybe. A pretty good year, too. I was a wild kid. I didn't know what I wanted. I knew that what I had, I didn't want. But I didn't know how to make a change. I was too young. Gee, I'm sorry about Timmy. That's depressing. It makes me feel old, Tal. I don't like to feel old."
"I came back and tried to find a Cindy. I didn't know your right name. I found a couple. Cindy Waskowitz—"
"A great fat pig. But nothing jolly about her. Brother, she was as nasty as they come."
"She's dead, too. Glandular trouble of some kind."
"Couldn't you go around wearing a wreath or singing hymns like Crossing the Bar?"
"I'm sorry. Then there was Cindy Kirschner."
"Kirschner. Wait a minute. A younger kid. Teeth like this?"