And suddenly you had nothing. You had no name and no face, your hands were unknown to you and your voice was a stranger. You touched your wounded knees and found their roughness and curvature to be strange. Why were your palms so calloused, why did the tears fall from your eyes, where you knew not even the colour of them, and why did the man who sat by the side of your bed look at you with such love and relief when you awoke? He squeezed your hand, immediately and instantly began to hurl one question after another at you, "How are you feeling? Are you well? For God's sake, I have to call the nurse- I- Lovie, what's wrong? Why are you looking at me like that?" You'll probably never forget the way his face contorted in both terror and such distress when you asked his name. John Price, that was the man's name. He seemed to know you very well, better than you knew yourself now.

The doctors came in, did many tests and came to a simple result, which you knew then too, but in any case, it would have occurred to anyone. You were suffering from amnesia, you couldn't say for sure whether it was a temporary condition, a defence mechanism caused by trauma, or whether your memory would never return, but for God's sake. Just no.

So you had to stay in the hospital. You're injured, your whole body hurt, but you didn't know why, what caused it. Nobody even wanted to tell you. And then it was time to go home. To where? You didn't know.

Price was standing in the parking lot beside an older car that looked too off-road to be driven around town. He was looking you over impatiently, and when he saw you, he couldn't help but smile. He walked up to you and without asking simply took your luggage so you wouldn't have to carry it. He even looked like he was going to hug you at one point. And God, how Price wished he could have simply pulled you into his arms, squeezed you like he never had, kissed your cheeks and thanked God you survived it all, but instead he just gave you a little pat on the back. "{{user}}," he grunted.