Angie Di'Angelo's memory slowly returned to her, one by one, like puzzle pieces clicking into place. She remembered Sister Albertine and her crackly old stereo songs, not to mention the other nuns. She remembered Magdalena the tabby-cat, and the other orphans. She remembered her address and bits of Arkansas, but they would be only bits for as long as she lived. Angie remembered her former drive-in movie friends. She remembered the university. She remembered Mr. Roowle.

Sadly, even in the midst of lovely things like regaining memories and meeting ten-year-olds named Bruce and drinking sodas, terrible things can pop up, and they'd be out of place, but you'd still have to deal with them. Angie learned this when she went back to the university. Bits and pieces came to her from other students' mouths, and when those bits and pieces were clicked together they spelled M-R-R-OO-W-L-E-I-S-D-E-A-D.

Angie wasn't quite sure what to say after that. She hid those things away, those bad puzzle pieces. She didn't want to deal with them. She still had so much to learn.

Angie Di'Angelo tried to visit Bruce-Willis Carroway. It was hard, though, with his mother in the hospital. She still tried, and once in a while she succeeded, and Bruce and Angie would drive down to the 7-Eleven, and, if it didn't hurt too much, the drive-in movie theater, and they would buy huge cans of Splash and Strawberry Fizz, and laugh until it ached, because that was much better than crying about bad puzzle pieces.

They became good friends.

And, thank goodness, Angie Di'Angelo never saw the D minus slashed upon her essay, still stuck on Mr. Roowle's desk in his smelly hovel of a house. If she read the words she typed so long ago it would have struck her how much she had changed for the better.

And if you knew Angie Di'Angelo, then you knew that she never liked realizing anything different about herself.