I’ll just have to remember things on my own, I decide. That’s the solution. “How long will it take for me to recover my memories on my own?”

Could I hide out until that time?

“It could be days or weeks or months or maybe even years. The brain is a big mystery for even doctors and scientists. I’m sorry. I wish I had a better answer. The good thing, like I said before, is that other than a few bruised ribs, you’re physically in excellent condition.”

The nurse pulls out a small vial and sticks a needle in it. I eye it and her with slight unease.

“Can you give me a drug to help me remember?”

“We are.” She taps her needle.

“Can you at least give me a bare account of what happened?” I beg. “Did I hurt anyone else?” That’s really the important thing here. “Was anyone in the car with me? My family?” I struggle to envision my family but can’t come up with any clear images. There are shadows there. One, two…three? The doctor referenced a mom and an older sister, which would make me the youngest if my family is made up of four people. Or maybe my mom’s divorced and I have three siblings? How can I not know this? Blood churns violently in my head. A sharp pain spikes behind my eyes. This not knowing may kill me.

“You were driving alone. There were three young people in another vehicle,” Doc Joshi says. “Two were uninjured and the other, a male, is in critical condition.”

“Oh God,” I moan. This is the worst. “Who is it? And what’s wrong with him? Was it my fault? Why don’t I remember what happened?”

“It’s your mind’s way of protecting you. This often happens to trauma patients.” He pats me on the hand before leaving. “I’m not concerned, so you don’t need to be, either.”

Not be concerned? Dude, I’ve lost my mind, literally.

“Are you ready for a few visitors?” asks the nurse after the doctor is gone. She injects the drugs into the plastic bag hanging on a hook next to my bed.

“I don’t think—”

“Is she awake?” chirps a voice from the door.

“Your friend’s been waiting for hours to see you. Should I let her in?” Nurse Susan asks.

My first impulse is to say no. I feel like death. My entire body aches, like even my toes feel bruised. The thought of smiling and pretending I’m okay, because that’s what you do with people, isn’t appealing.

Worse, every interaction with my friends and family might mean that the things I remember will be someone else’s recollection, not my own. I’ve lost a part of myself and unless I remain completely isolated, I may never fully recover.

But I don’t want to be completely isolated. Not knowing is worse than having incomplete information.

“Yes.” I can piece things together. Compare and contrast statements. When facts are confirmed by more than one source, that’s the truth. I can deal with the physical pain; it’s the uncertainty that’s gnawing away inside. I nod and repeat, “Yes.”

“She’s awake, but be gentle with her,” calls the nurse.

I watch as a girl with long, shiny blonde hair nears my bed. I don’t recognize her. Disappointment pushes my shoulders down. If she’s been waiting for hours, she must be a close friend. So why can’t I remember her? Think, Hartley, think! I order.

Doc said I might not get some memories back, but he didn’t mean I’d forget the people I cared about, did he? Is that even possible? Wouldn’t the ones I love be etched into my heart, carved so deeply that I would always remember them?

I search the black void in my brain to see if I can pull up a name. Who am I close friends with? An image pops into my head of a pretty strawberry blonde with a face full of freckles. Kayleen. Kayleen O’Grady. After her name, a collage of images tumble into my brain—waiting in the park after school; spying on a boy; spending the night in her soccer-themed bedroom; going to music lessons together. I flex my hand in surprise. Music lessons? A picture of me bent over a violin appears. I played the violin? I’ll have to ask Kayleen about that.

“Yeah, get over here, girl,” I say, ignoring the pain the movement brings. Who cares if it hurts to move. I’m getting my memories back. Doc Joshi knows nothing. I smile broadly and reach for Kayleen’s hand.

She ignores it, stopping about five feet from the bed as if I’m contagious. She’s close enough for me to see she looks nothing like the snapshot in my memory. This girl’s face is more oval. Her eyebrows are sharply defined. Her hair is a light blonde and her face is freckle-free. Kayleen could have dyed her hair, but there’s no way her face goes from cute with freckles to the chilly, unfriendly blonde with a vanilla complexion.

And her clothes...Kayleen’s a jeans-and-oversized-flannel kind of girl. The person in front of me is wearing a knee-length cream plaid skirt with black-and-red striping. She’s paired it with a cream long-sleeve blouse with lace at the sleeves and the collar. On her feet, she has a pair of quilted ballet slippers with shiny black caps and interlocking gold CCs finishing them off. Her hair is pulled back to one side and fastened with a barrette with the same interlocking letters, only these are studded with rhinestones—or hell, maybe they’re diamonds.

She looks like an expensive magazine advertisement.

I frown, dropping my rejected hand to my lap. “Wait, you’re not Kayleen.” I squint. The girl looks vaguely familiar. “Is that you…Felicity?”