This oblivion may have been the manifestation of an all-wise Almighty.
Now, at least, he could not brood over past mistakes, though,
unconsciously, he might have to live them out. Life to him was a new
book, not one mark appeared on its clean pages. He did not even know his
name--nothing.

From the "W. G." on his linen he understood that those were his
initials, but he could not interpret them; they stood for nothing. He
had no letters, memoranda in his pockets, bearing his name. And so
he took the name of William Good. Perhaps the "William" came to him
instinctively; he had no reason for choosing "Good."

Garrison left the hospital with his cough, a little money the
superintendent had kindly given to him, and his clothes; that was all.

Handicapped as he was, harried by futile attempts of memory to fathom
his identity, he was about to renew the battle of life; not as a
veteran, one who has earned promotion, profited by experience, but as a
raw recruit.

The big city was no longer an old familiar mother, whose every mood and
whimsy he sensed unerringly; now he was a stranger. The streets meant
nothing to him. But when he first turned into old Broadway, a vague,
uneasy feeling stirred within him; it was a memory struggling like an
imprisoned bird to be free. Almost the first person he met was Jimmy
Drake. Garrison was about to pass by, oblivious, when the other seized
him by the arm.

"Hello, Billy! Where did you drop from--"