I’m expecting a “thanks but no thanks.” So when she tucks her textbook back into her bag and looks up at me, her full lips stretched wide, her eyes dancing with nervous excitement, and says, “I’d really like that,” it takes me a moment to answer.

“Okay. Let me just get my keys and—”

Heavy footsteps behind me cut my words off. “Viktor is outside, waiting for you,” Miller’s sudden gruff voice calls out from behind me.

Her back stiffens. “Viktor’s here?” Immediately she’s unfolding her legs and sliding pretty feet into her heels, her wide-eyed gaze passing by me to search the hall through the windows. Reaching up, she yanks the elastic out of her ponytail, letting her hair fall down over her shoulders and back. It looks silky soft. I want to reach out and touch it.

Because that would go over well.

“I’m sorry if Jesse was bothering you,” Miller mutters, and I roll my eyes.

“He wasn’t, at all. Thank you, Mr. Miller.” Standing, she pulls her jacket on and begins smoothing her pants and adjusting her clothes. It’s becoming glaringly obvious to me that her appearance is very important around her husband. “Where is he?”

“Out front, talking to Tabbs.”

She rushes past me, her eyes sliding over mine for the briefest of seconds before she drops her gaze, heading toward the door. No “’bye,” no “thanks for the offer.” I watch her go, and see her feet falter just as her hand touches the handle. But then she lifts her head high, pushes through the door, and is gone.

I feel my body slump with disappointment.

“I don’t care if you can turn a Pinto engine into a flying spacecraft. I don’t pay you to stand around here and chat with pretty wives.”

“I was just telling her that we need to order a part for her car,” I retort, annoyed by his insinuation. I’m not after anyone’s wife.

I’m after the girl who kissed me on the side of the road one rainy night.

His chubby finger pokes the air. “I like you, Welles. But don’t grow an attitude problem.”

Great. It’s like I’m working for my father.

“Now, get back to that Enclave before I dock your pay. And stay the hell away from Alexandria Petrova.”

I toss him the keys and don’t bother to hide my dry tone when I say, “It’s done.”

His frown eases. “Already?” Shaking his head as he walks back to his office, I hear a mutter of, “Damn fast, kid.”

Alexandria.

Knowing her name makes me smile.

EIGHT

Jane Doe

now

“She sleeps like the dead.”

I crack an eyelid at the unfamiliar voice. A thin woman with short, dove-gray hair occupies the bed next to me, a square piece of fabric in hand, a glower pulling her brow down as she threads a needle through the material. There’s no one else in the room, so I assume she’s talking to herself. I really don’t care, though.

Because I finally have a roommate.

When they moved me from critical care to this ward, Dr. Alwood warned me I’d probably have to share the room. She made it sound like that would be a bad thing. I guess for most people, it might be. They’d rather have privacy while they visit with friends and family.

But for me, I’m desperate for the company. For human interaction.

I’m sick of being alone.

I’ve been here for three months. Three months. No one besides the nurses, Dr. Alwood, and occasionally Sheriff Welles comes by. Peace is a myth when I’m lying in bed all day and night¸ drowning my time with sitcoms, thinking about everything . . . and nothing. Because to think about something, you need to know something, and most days I feel like I know nothing at all.

Sure, I know how to tie shoes and how to get the television remote to work. I know how to feed myself and how to read. The hospital psychologist, Dr. Weimer, explained that there are different types of memory, and my “semantic memory”—how to do things—remains intact. It’s my “episodic” memory—events of my life—that is impaired. If by “episodic” she means my entire life, then I guess she’s right.

“What time is it?” I stretch my arms, reveling in the freedom from the uncomfortable plaster cast they removed two weeks ago.

“Did you forget how to tell time?” The woman jabs one long, wiry finger toward the clock up on the wall that reads nine thirty. There’s nothing playful in her tone.

“Right, sorry.” I know that clock is there. I’ve spent ample time staring at it. I don’t know why I asked. To keep the conversation going, perhaps.

The door pushes open and Amber walks through with a tray of small paper cups. “Hey, Jane.”

I return her warm smile, even though that name grates on my nerves. At first it was just another part of my reality, the fact that I arrived at the hospital half-dead and without identification. But somewhere along the line, it ceased to be simply a label.

I now answer to it without hesitation.

Amber rounds my neighbor’s bed. “How are you doing, Ginny?”

“I’d be better if your mother would hurry up with this surgery so I can get outta here. I don’t know what’s taking so damn long,” the woman mutters, her eyes never leaving her quilt work.

The first time I heard Amber call Dr. Alwood “Mom,” I was sure I misheard. Even though I had picked up on the similarity in their features the first day that I met them, I was too distracted to make the connection. It wasn’t until weeks later that I learned Amber was Dr. Alwood and Sheriff Welles’s second child, a twin sister to the son who stormed into my room that day.

“I’m sorry, Ginny. There was an emergency and they needed that OR. You know how these elective surgeries can get bumped. They should have you in shortly.”

“Good, ’cuz I’m not coming back again, so we’d best be getting this gallbladder out today.”

“Yes, Mom’s working on making that happen.” Amber offers her a tight smile as she sets the tray down on the adjustable bed table. “We thought you could use something to calm your nerves while you wait.”

Ginny’s fingers pause and one sharp eye lifts to study the cups. After a long moment, she says in a slightly softer tone, “Well, go on, then. Leave them there and move along.”

So far, my new roommate isn’t the most charming person.

Amber does as asked and steps back to give the woman space. I catch the small eye roll as she turns around to face me. Otherwise, she doesn’t seem the least bit perturbed by the woman’s frosty temperament. “How are the pajamas?”

I toss off my sheet, displaying the pink two-piece set that she left on my nightstand yesterday. The second pair that she’s given me. These ones still had a tag on them. “They’re perfect. Thank you.”

She smiles. “I figured the flannel would be getting hot, now that spring’s here.”

Spring. I have no actual memories of spring and yet when Amber says the word, I’m immediately hit with the smell of fresh dirt, the tickle of warm rain against my skin, the sight of tulips and daffodils poking through the ground. The ever-present weight on my chest lifts slightly. Do I like spring? Is it my favorite season?

“You want some help getting to the bathroom?” She holds out a hand as I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and step down carefully. Though my leg cast is off, I still have to wear a brace around my knee for support.

I slowly limp my way to the small, uncomfortable bathroom with my cosmetics case in tow. Another gift from Amber. It’s filled with basic toiletries and some nice creams that I keep finding on my nightstand when I wake in the morning, little gifts from the nursing staff that I both appreciate and despise. Appreciate because their kindness for the lonely, deprived Jane Doe has ensured that I’m never without; despise because I’m at everyone’s mercy. I can’t take care of myself.

“I’ll be out here. Holler if you need me,” Amber says, shutting the door behind me.

I smile. Knowing that there are people like Dr. Alwood and Amber in the world to balance out the malicious monster who put me here is comforting. Even the sheriff is nice. Quiet, but nice. The only one in that family I can’t speak for is Amber’s brother. I haven’t seen him since that day he barged into my room.

I let the shower warm as I undress, avoiding the mirror. Even under the dull fluorescent lighting, it reveals too much. My eyes immediately search out the round tribal tattoo on my pelvis. My fingertip traces the wavy lines. The moment I first saw it, I knew that it stood for “water,” though I don’t remember getting it and I certainly don’t remember why.

All I know is that it’s the only visible tie to my past.

Dr. Weimer said that, following the general “rules” of my condition, I shouldn’t remember what it means. She said that something like that would be a part of my episodic memory. I don’t speak in tribal symbols, after all.

I have no answer for that, except that I know what it means.

But I don’t know what it means.

My palm rests against my abdomen, as it does every day, taking a few minutes to imagine what the tattoo would have looked like with a swollen belly, had I not miscarried. A hollow ache fills my chest. It is becoming more obvious, as the rest of my body heals, that the loss of my baby isn’t merely one of many injuries earned with the attack. I may not remember its conception but somehow, it still exists in my heart.

The X-rays of my pelvis confirm that I’ve never given birth before, so there is no motherless child standing by a doorway in tears, wondering why mommy hasn’t come home yet. That’s good news, at least.

Still, the existence of an unborn child means the existence of a man who I’ve shared at least one night with. Perhaps many nights. A man who doesn’t seem to be looking for me now.

No one seems to be looking for me.

In the shower, the warm, soothing water takes some of the edge off, as it does every day. Unfortunately, when it comes time to brush my teeth and comb my wet hair, that edge reemerges with a vengeance. It’s impossible to avoid my reflection. It’s not completely monstrous anymore. My skin is no longer Technicolor and my nose has healed to a narrow and small centerpiece that Dr. Alwood says turned out better than she expected. But, besides the patch of short hair where my head was shaved for stitches and the drainage tubes, the missing teeth that I hide by not smiling, and the swollen purple spot on my lip that I’m told will fade, there’s nothing to distract my attention from the unsightly line running down the length of my face. It’s still red, though not as bright and puffy as when I first saw it. Dr. Alwood keeps reminding me how lucky I am that a renowned plastic surgeon was here to help; how lucky I am that my attacker didn’t slash diagonally, cutting into an eye or across my nose. She says that within a year, some concealer and foundation will make it almost vanish.

Almost.

And yet I will see it every time I look in a mirror, from now until my last day, whether it is through the eyes of who I once was or who I have since become. Or, more likely, a jaded combination, because that original girl will never truly return.

When I’m dressed again, I emerge from the bathroom. Amber is gone.

“When was the last time you went outside?” Ginny asks, her tone not as harsh as it was earlier. The drugs must have kicked in.

“Amber took me out last week, but it was too cold to stay long.” I drop my things in the drawer by my bed and then make my way over to the window. Round shrubs stand in a solitary row outside. Beyond them is a blanket of manicured green grass and, beyond that, a parking lot filled with cars. It’s not much to look at and yet each time I venture over to the glass, both my impatience and my fear swell. I’ve been confined to these dreary walls for months now and I’m ready to see the world beyond that parking lot. Yet, that will mean I’ve been released into the world. Released to go . . .

Where?

I have nowhere to go.

Here, within these walls, I have people. Paid staff, mind you, but people.

Out there . . .

I have no one.

“Tell Meredith to take you out today. It was mild this morning, on my way here. Finally. What a long winter it’s been! They’re calling for a cool summer with more rain than normal. We don’t get much of that in the interior, so that’ll be nice. I’m sure the folks in Portland will be complaining even more than usual, though.”

I finally venture, “It sounds like you know Dr. Alwood well.”

“I’ve lived next door to the Welles family all my life. I used to babysit Gabe, back when he was making mud pies and throwing frogs at girls. Why some idiot gave him a gun and let him run the town is beyond me.”

I glance over my shoulder at her, still focused on her needlework. She’s definitely older than Sheriff Welles but by how much, I’m not sure. Maybe the gray in her hair is deceiving me. It looks like she cut it herself. With hedge clippers. Though I shouldn’t judge, given my own hair right now.