“Which one?”

“Bayview has more than one?” Nice. I even know where I am. I settle back comfortably. That blank space when I first woke up was entirely understandable. I’d been hurt bad enough to be hospitalized and was disoriented.

He knocks a fist against the wooden footrest. “Two out of three isn’t bad.”

“What happened?” Have I asked this question before? It seems familiar. But if I did, I didn’t get an answer. At least, not one that I can’t remember. When I close my eyes and try to recall how I got here, I see nothing but a black landscape. I hurt all over, so I feel like I must’ve been in an accident. Did I get hit by a truck? Fall out of a second-story window? Get bashed in the head while buying groceries?

“You were in a motor vehicle collision,” the doctor says. “Your physical injuries are healing nicely, but from your other lucid moments you appear to be suffering from trauma-induced retrograde episodic memory loss suffered when you fell in the hospital.”

“Wait, what?” Those were a lot of words he just fired out at me.

“You’re suffering from memory loss that—”

“Like amnesia?” I cut in. “That’s a real thing?”

“It’s a real thing,” Doc Joshi confirms with a small smile.

“What does that mean?”

“It basically means that the autobiographical memories that you formed, such as your first day of kindergarten or your first kiss or a bad fight with your boyfriend—those aren’t likely to be retrieved.”

My jaw falls open. He’s kidding me. “I may never get my memory back? Is that possible?” I look around for the camera, for someone to jump out and yell, “Surprise!” Except no one does. The room remains empty but for Susan, the doctor and me.

“It is, but you’re young and so it shouldn’t be too traumatic.”

I swing my gaze back to Dr. Joshi. “Not too traumatic?” I can feel hysteria burbling in my throat. “I can’t remember a thing.”

“That’s how it feels now, but actually you remember many things. From what we’ve observed—when you were sleeping and just now as you and I talk—you’ve likely retained procedural memories. Motor skills that you’ve learned, along with developmental skills such as oratory abilities. Some of these skills you won’t know you have until you do them. For example, you might not realize you know how to ride a bicycle until you hop onto one. What’s important is that you’re going to be just fine after a few weeks of rest and recovery.”

“Just fine?” I repeat numbly. How can I be just fine if my memories are gone?

“Yes. Don’t focus on the negative.” He jots something down on the chart before handing it to Nurse Susan. “Now I’m going to give you the hardest bit of your recovery.”

“It’s a good thing I’m lying down if losing my entire memory isn’t the hardest part of my recovery.” I know I shouldn’t be sarcastic, but damn, this is hard to swallow.

Doc Joshi grins. “See, you haven’t lost your sense of humor.” The smile fades as he grows somber. “And it’s very possible you can regain your autobiographical memories. However, you need to keep an open mind when you interact with people. Their recollection of events is going to be different than yours. Does that make sense?”

“No.” The truth is the truth. None of this makes sense. How can I remember my name but not how the accident happened? How can I remember what a hospital is or that the tube running up my arm is an IV or that a harmonic series diverges to infinity but not my first kiss?

The doctor taps the bed rail to get my attention.

“Am I a doctor?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re wearing a doctor’s coat. You have the hearing thingy,”—stethoscope, my mind helpfully supplies—“around your neck, and you talk like one.”

“If Susan here was wearing my coat and the ’scope, wouldn’t you think she was a doctor?”

I tilt my head up to look at the nurse. Susan smiles and frames her face with her hands. I dress her up in the coat and the metal stethoscope and see her exactly as he’d described—a doctor.

“You see, truth is a variable concept based on each individual’s bias. If you saw Susan walking down the hall, you might have said that you saw a doctor, when it’s really one of our very capable nurses. What your mother may remember about you borrowing a dress your sister promised you could wear is going to be different than your sister’s memory. If you had a fight with your boyfriend, his memory of who is at fault might be different than yours.

“I’ve advised your family members and friends that they should avoid talking about your past to the best of their ability until it’s confirmed that you’ve lost those memories entirely. I’ll write you a note for school and you should warn your classmates about this. If they tell you things about the past, it can color your memories or even replace them.”

My body chills as I attempt to absorb the doctor’s warning. The whole “two sides to every story” thing is taking on scary implications.

“I don’t like this,” I tell him.

“I know. I wouldn’t like it, either.”