Watermelon ran to Jeremy, nearly tripping over his own feet. “You remember me? You really know who I am?”

Johnny Waterman had tried out for little league in 2005. The tryouts were run by the coaches of the teams, whose job was to run the kids through their paces to gauge their skills. One of the coaches hit ground balls to the infielders and fly balls to the outfielders.

They put Waterman in right field. When the coach lobbed a soft fly ball toward right field, Waterman braced himself, stuck his left hand, his gloved hand, as far away from his body as possible, and raised his right arm in front of his face in case he had misjudged the path of the ball. The ball plopped ten feet in front of him and rolled. Waterman politely stepped out of its way and and watched it roll to a stop fifteen feet behind him. Then he ran to the ball, picked it up, reared back dramatically, and threw the ball lovingly into the first base dugout.

Jeremy was sitting with Aidan Corliss and Manny Tucker on the four-tiered metal stands behind third base.

Manny burst into laughter. “All right, Watermelon! You go, girl!”

“Lousy aim,” Aidan Corliss said. “But a good arm, at least.”

The coach hit a few more fly balls, even softer if that was possible, toward Waterman. Each time, Waterman braced, and the ball landed at some safe distance.

Manny Tucker said, “Watermelon’s Dad owns half the Starbucks in the central valley. He’s got muchos dineros, so you know his donut hole kid will get picked.”

Aidan turned to Manny. “Do all of your insults involve food? Have a sandwich, for crying out loud.”

Actually, Jeremy thought, Watermelon would get picked no matter what. That was one of the rules. Anyone who tries out gets picked. The only question was which team would get stuck with which dorks. Jeremy didn’t know how that was decided. Maybe a lottery. More likely by unsanctioned trading and haggling among the coaches.

Watermelon ended up on Jason’s Computers. But within a week he apparently decided that baseball was not his sport and he quit before the first game.

Now, two years later, looking at Watermelon in the basement meeting room of the First Congregational Church of Portland Jeremy said, “Yes, I remember you. A few years ago you were on my little league team for about a week. You, uh, weren’t very good.”

Watermelon blushed. “I didn’t really–”

Nils said, finally, “You remember him? How do you remember him?”

“I don’t know,” Jeremy said. He turned to Watermelon. “More importantly, Johnny, do you know me?”

Watermelon stepped back and looked Jeremy up and down. “I don’t think so. It’s weird that you remember me.”

Nils said, “It’s more than weird. We’ve never heard of this before, somebody remembering a Forgotten. Not until yesterday, I mean.”

Jeremy said, “Yesterday? What happened yesterday?”

“I thought you knew. That guy Foley remembers you.”

Jeremy had wondered about that. “Well, yeah, I was wondering why Page remembers me when nobody else does. But I didn’t– You mean this doesn’t happen all the time?”

“No,” Nils said. “It’s never happened before yesterday. And now it’s happened twice. And you’re in the middle of both.”

The three boys stood in silence for a minute, each looking back and forth from one of his companions to the other.

“This is big time,” Nils said. “I’d better call Aaron right away. This is big time.”