“I had no idea.” She rubs her head wearily as if this whole ordeal is exhausting for her. Her scar flashes into view, reminding me that she lives with a man who broke her wrist.

She always said her wrist injury was an accident, and since she didn’t seem concerned about it, I tried not to be as well. I guess I’d pushed that out of my head along with everything else to make room for the elephant-sized worry over her injuries and Seb’s that planted itself in my brain. Now that I’m with Hart, and her head injury isn’t my main focus, part of the anxiety has receded and I’m starting to remember details about her past. I’m beginning to see how trauma could cause you to forget shit. I haven’t hit my head and I’m already losing it from fear alone.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere?” I blurt out.

She blinks at me, bewildered again. “Yeah, I’m fine. My ribs are still a tiny bit sore, but overall, I’m good. My body’s good, at least.”

“Okay.” I breathe a little easier. She seems entirely sincere. “Let’s get our stuff and go home.” Home. The word slips before I realize what I’m saying. I glance in her direction to see if she caught it, but she’s preoccupied with loading up her hotdog with every condiment known to man. There’s no sense in putting a bigger burden on her than there was before. Maybe her old man changed. I want to believe that.

I force a smile on my lips. “That’s a crime,” I tell her.

“What is?” Her head pops up, jerking to the right and left as if trying to see if there’s a cop ready to arrest her for abuse of relish.

“You’re not supposed to put ketchup on the dog and there’s a specific order you apply the condiments in.”

The corner of her mouth lifts. “The hotdog police haven’t appeared yet, so I’m going to risk it. After all, isn’t the fault really with the store? They put the ketchup out. This is obviously entrapment.”

“They’re waiting outside. They don’t want to cause a scene in here. Plus, if others see them arresting you the word will get out that this is a honey trap,” I inform her with a grin. I haven’t seen her smile in so long I forgot what it looked like.

“If I’m arrested, everyone’s going to hear about it,” she jokes. When both dogs are wrapped, she carries them toward the counter. Over her shoulder, she calls, “Can you grab me a Diet Coke?”

I walk over to the fridges and pull out the bottle of soda. My eyes drift toward the booze. The conversation coming up isn’t going to be a fun one. It’d be loads easier if I had a few forties in my belly. Or maybe one in hers.

“Coming, East?”

Her using my nickname drags my attention away from the booze. Man, I’m so whipped. I snatch another bottle of Diet Coke and amble toward her.

She’s leaning over the counter holding up a prepaid cell phone. “I can get the phone for sixty bucks, but how much per month for the service?”

“Another thirty.”

Hart fingers a hundred-dollar bill.

“Did you lose your phone?”

She nods. “Yeah, Mom said it must’ve gotten wrecked in the accident. That or the towing company lost it.”

That answers why none of my texts were answered. I feel marginally better. I gently nudge her aside and lay down the sodas and a few bills to pay for the food and the phone. This one can make do until I buy her another.

“Wait, I have money,” she protests.

I ignore her and so does the clerk.

As we wait for him to make change, she thrums her fingers against the counter, clearly debating something.

Finally, she stops and asks, “Do you remember me?”

The clerk looks up from the register. “Um, no, should I?”

“I didn’t shop here before?”

“No clue.” His eyes dart in my direction, seeking help.

“She’s got amnesia.”

“Wow, that’s a thing?”

“Yeah, a real thing,” Hart replies. “I must not have shopped here often, huh?”

“I guess not. You ate food from the diner at times. Sometimes you let me feed you.”

“Oh.” Her shoulders drop.

“I’ll take you to the diner if you want. You can ask them stuff.”

“What’s the point?” She sounds so discouraged.

“If it makes you feel better,” the clerk chirps, “I’ll remember you now.”

“No. That doesn’t make me feel better,” she retorts, grabbing her phone and rushing out.

“Eh, sorry, man. My bad,” the clerk says.

“It’s fine.” I gather up the rest of the stuff and join Hart outside.

“Sorry,” she says.

“For what? Being upset? Why do you have to apologize for that?”

“For being rude inside.”

“You weren’t rude. He made a bad joke.” I fling an arm around her shoulders and steer her toward the apartment. “You sure you don’t want me to take you to the diner? We can go right now. It’s open twenty-four hours.”

“I don’t know. If you’d asked me a few days ago, I would’ve said yes immediately, but now…I’m afraid.”

“Of what?” I slow my stride to match her shorter one.