When you came into the E.R., your condition was less than ideal. Your car accident had left your face and body in a state of disrepair, unable to be immediately identified. For a while, that was good for the doctors of Grey Sloan. If they couldn’t identify you, they could spare your loved ones the news, save them the trauma. It was good until it wasn’t. One of your doctors and good friends, Cristina Yang, came to check on you. You moved your fingers like you wanted to write something.

She gave you a pen and a pad of paper but, when that didn’t work and you tossed the utensils on the ground. Desperately reaching for Cristina’s hand, you scribbled the initials of the one person you knew Cristina could use to identify you: A.S. Amelia Shepherd. You repeated the scribbles over and over until you saw the look of pure shock in Cristina’s face.

She quickly called in a couple of other doctors to discuss your options. The question of even telling Amelia, knowing that the news that it was you who was in that wreck, would kill her, came up. Amelia turned the corner as she made her rounds and the conversation between Cristina and the others seized just as she had uttered, “We can’t tell Amelia…”

“Don’t tell Amelia what?”