“That’s how Ptolemy imagined the disposition of his memories, his thoughts: they were still his, still in the range of his thinking, but they were, many and most of them, locked on the other side of a closed door that he’d lost the key for.”

Ptolemy can recall scenes and conversations from his past. In this sense, his memory is intact. However, he lacks context and continuity to interpret the images he sees. It’s as if he exists only in an isolated present moment. He needs Ruben’s drugs and Robyn to connect the moments of his life into a coherent pattern.

“People were always smiling at him now that he was so old. Even people who looked old to him smiled because, he knew, he looked even older to them.”

Random strangers smile at Ptolemy on the bus. Somehow, society views old people as harmless. While this might seem endearing, harmlessness invites victimization. Ptolemy will learn this lesson from predatory family and friends.

“Her almond-shaped eyes looked right into his, not making him feel old or like he wasn’t there. And there was something else about her: she didn’t remind him of anyone he had ever met before.”

In the early pages of the book, Ptolemy is bedeviled by faces from his past. He’s forgotten names, but they still continue to visit. Meeting Robyn represents a respite from this constant effort to remember.