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Beautiful in all its symmetry. I’ve always loved his tattoos. But is that one…new? Next to a red sparrow is a name. Inked clearly. Visibly. Maximoff.
My brother’s name.
I must be dreaming now. Or hallucinating.
“Why is Moffy’s name tattooed on you?” The words are tight in my aching ribs.
Farrow steps away from the machine and glances at his collarbone peeking from the V-neck. Then he looks at me. He frowns for a second before gently taking a seat again. “Do you know your name?” he asks.
“Luna Hale,” I say, confident about this. “Luna with No Middle Name Hale. That’s what Tom likes to call me.” My voice sounds frail.
I gulp more water and taste my strange tongue. How long have I been asleep? Is that why my mouth feels so odd? The questions flash in and out again.
Farrow nods like I’m on the right path with my name. I try to relax, and I rub at my tired eyes.
“Do you know what day it is?” he asks.
The calendar feels fuzzy. How long have I been here? I search the room again, eyeing the TV. Gilmore Girls is playing. I notice the beeping monitors. The IV bags. I recognize Farrow on the stool, bent forward with a serious face.
Why isn’t his hair bleach-blond?
“What happened?” I ask quietly. I barely hear my own voice. “Why am I in the hospital?”
He’s calm as he answers, “You fell and hit your head on concrete.”
Oh.
I don’t remember that.
He takes a deep breath and adds, “You had a CT scan done, and there’s no hemorrhaging or clots in your brain. But you might experience some post-traumatic amnesia. That means storing memories and information right now might be difficult. It might also be hard to access past memories from before the injury.”
My stomach somersaults. “How long does that last?”
“It varies,” Farrow says.
I frown harder, not liking the vagueness of that answer.
Farrow runs a hand over his mouth and lip piercing, contemplating something. After a second, he tells me, “For mild brain injuries, less than twenty-four hours. For moderate brain injuries, that could be anywhere from one to seven days. Anything more is severe.”
Mild. Moderate. Severe.
I’m afraid of where I fall, but I’m more afraid to ask how long I’ve been in the hospital. Farrow—the more I inspect him, the more he’s the same but different in a way. I can’t pinpoint why other than I’m still half-asleep.
“So this isn’t a dream?” I ask while he refills my water. “Because it feels an awful lot like a dream.” The fuzziness, especially. Like my brain hasn’t fully awakened yet. Fear clings to me like too tight plastic wrap around my head. What if I can never wake up? What if I’m stuck floating through a haze forever?
“It’s not a dream,” Farrow assures. He stands, grabs an electronic tablet from the wall, then returns to the stool. “I’m going to ask you some questions. You up for that?”
My eyes sting, too dry. I blink a few more times. “I guess.” I scan the room. “What about my mom and dad? Can I see them?” Are they okay? Why aren’t they here?
“You can see them after you’re evaluated,” Farrow says. I suppose that if I can’t see my family right now, Farrow is the next best option. He’s a person I’d choose to be with me.
“You’re the one evaluating me?” I ask hopefully, but also a little puzzled. “Nobody else?”
He nods. “Right now, it’s just me.” He reaches out and takes my hand.
I inhale, exhale. His tattoos are so beautiful. I look around the room again. The drapes are too beige, but I recognize the Stars Hollow gazebo on the TV screen. Some network must be airing Gilmore Girls reruns. Soft beeps emit from the heart monitor, and I focus on Farrow, about to ask him why I’m at the hospital.
But bits and pieces of information float around my brain.
Head injury. Something like that?
I fell, I think.
I don’t ask.
I try and think hard about the injury. But nothing pops in my head.
Except for the mental image of a room. Not one in the hospital. This looks more like a home. Drab with scuffed floorboards and old floral wallpaper. It’s a weird image, barely even a memory. Feels more like a movie I once saw and not somewhere I’ve been.
In all the fics I’ve ever written, I don’t think I’ve ever penned a story with amnesia. Then again, would I even remember if I did?
“What’s your name?” Farrow asks the first question.
“Luna Hale.” I use the remote to prop myself even higher. He’s already asked about my pain levels again, and I feel a little less run over. Likely, I’m being pumped full of meds, and I’m not complaining. The baby blue hospital gown swallows my frame, and I stay underneath the white blankets. The tubes and wires on my body aren’t annoying me as much as my foggy mind.
