“Thank you,” I repeated, licking my lips.
“You’re welcome,” the woman responded. She was everything I’d always thought a mother would look like. She appeared to me as a thicker, shorter version of the Madonna. She smiled at me and I wanted to cry. “You’re lucky we found you; what were you doing out there?”
I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I evaded the question by asking one of my own. “Where am I?”
“You’re in the village between Fronsac and Bordeaux, perhaps you know it-Moyen Rivieres?”
“I’ve come that far?” I marveled.
“Indeed,” she said smiling. “Have you got a name?”
“Ma-umm—” I stumbled. Should I giver her my real name? Surely she would recognize a name as prominent as Lennon.
“Your name is ’ma’um’?” She asked with amusement.
“Sorian,” I replied quickly, giving the name of one of my old friends. “Sorian Trelisca.” The last name was completely made up and something told me she knew it. She didn’t say anything, though, so I tried not to worry.
“I’m Georgette,” she replied. “It’s nice to meet you.”