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Chapter One
Jane
It’s not normal to forget my name, is it?
I’m not sure, because I can’t remember what normal is.
I think my name is Jane.
I like the name Jane. It feels nice to say. Straightforward.
But that might be explained by the power of suggestion. You know, because that’s how people always refer to unidentifiable women: “Jane Doe.”
The things I do flash on—like blips of déjà vu —are pretty random. I remember sequins, lots of cheering and champagne, before everything went blank.
I remember a man, but his face is a forgettable blur.
When I close my eyes to concentrate, I notice my fingers still seem to know how to knit and crochet. Gee, that’s useful in the current moment.
What’s my current moment, you ask?
I’m sitting on a park bench in a frilly pink nightie under a bright and cloudless sky.
My name, where I live, what year it is, my marital status? Forgotten.
I think I can still type, but I don’t remember my login for any social media.
Which doesn’t really matter because I also don’t remember my phone unlock password. The password would be useless anyway, since I don’t seem to have my phone.
That would be handy right now, seeing as I could use my phone to call emergency.
But you know what?
I have this weird feeling that I don’t want to call anyone. My head is saying, “Maybe it’s OK to not know who you are, at least for a little while.”
Does that make sense?
I know, it’s counterintuitive. I know what I should do. I should find a police officer. Or a fire department. Or a hospital.
There’s a problem, though. My brain seems to be exhibiting a hard-wired aversion the word “should.”
Thinking of the “shoulds” in this situation is making me feel like doing the opposite.
A subtle spine tingle is telling me to lay low.
I’m going to go with my gut.
The time of day must be morning; I see people lined up outside this fancy coffee shop nearby. The name etched into the glass of the shop reads, “Cortex.”
Oh, sweet irony. The part of the brain that controls memory.
Wait, is that coincidence or irony? I’m going to say both.
I look around for clues as to what city I’m in. The street sign over there says Concord Avenue. There’s a Concord in New Hampshire, right?
Seems too warm to be New Hampshire.
Oh, but geography hasn’t left me, apparently.
It’s a good thing I’m warm, because this nightie is not leaving much to the imagination. Even with a satin robe over the top of this thing, my nips are saying “hello, world!” Strange, I don’t feel ashamed to be in public like this. Should I?
I should be freaking out and looking for something to cover me up, right?
There’s that word “should” again.
But some distant voice in my mind is not that worried about it.
I don’t care.
Why don’t I care?
Am I on antidepressants? Hard to tell. I don’t have a handbag on me, so no way to know if prescription pills are my jam.
No handbag, no phone, that means no wallet. Too bad, because I could use a coffee right now.
This coffee place looks expensive but damn, it smells good.
I hate to be that girl that gets her way just by being blonde and half naked, but you have to understand. I don’t know a lot right now, but I do know I need some coffee. I’m not feeling entitled so much as hoping to depend on the kindness of strangers.
I’m just going to get in that line and see what happens.
Chapter Two
Shepherd
The line of customers at my grand opening snakes all the way down the block at eight a.m. and I’m pretty stoked about it.
Cortex.
I know. It’s a pretentious name for a coffee shop. But hear me out. I chose the name because my Pops is a world-famous neurologist.
In fact, he’s phoning right now; I answer it while I’m ringing up a customer. I try to make an apologetic face, but the truth is I’m thrilled to hear from him.
“You making bank yet, young man?”
