Roma shouted.She was a small, slim woman of about forty with hazel eyes and dark hair cut in what they used to call a pixie. Apparently, she and Peter were great friends; she had turned up at the hospital to collect him and was now flying him home in her green vintage MG. She drove well, if terrifyingly fast.He hedged, calling over the rush of wind, “It's coming back.""But you remember me?""Sort of."Not really, if he was brutally honest. He had been relieved to find that he did apparently have friends. His hospital stay, though relatively brief, had been lonely and nerve-racking till Roma had shown up claiming long acquaintance. He had to take her word for it. He liked her, though. Liked her directness, liked her easy acceptance of his plight. He could believe they were friends even if he couldn't recall that friendship.She laughed now at his obvious discomfort. “In that case, I guess your trust is flattering.” She spared him a glance—Peter wished she wouldn't, given the bat-out-of-hell speed they were traveling at down the 210.
