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My right arm, the one that she was lying on top of, had fallen asleep early in the night. Pins and needles had turned to burning numbness hours ago.
She’d remained curled up against me, her hands linked around my left arm as an unspoken request for me to stay. I wanted to oblige. I wanted to give her everything she needed for as long as I could. This room was a cocoon, shielding us from the outside world. Whatever secrets lying in wait inside my brain would never be unlocked. If we stayed here, nothing could change.
Except cocoons didn’t protect those within from change. They protected their inhabitants during their inevitable change from one form to another.
The show housing us in this hotel wouldn’t last forever. It would end, and then what? Morgan didn’t have a plan, which meant I needed one. And the only plan I had was to find out the truth about myself so I could take a turn looking out for her.
What if the truth is worse than not knowing?
It couldn’t be.
Morgan had called out Tristan as she came. Tristan wasn’t my name, and somehow hearing it out of her lips then had felt like a jackhammer to my heart.
I ignored the churn in my gut and breathed in the peachy scent of her hair. No harm in staying just like this for a few more minutes.
Morgan moaned and twisted, sending her elbow straight into my ribs.
I folded over, pulling my trapped arm out from under her to cradle the injury. I guessed that was the end of that.
I rolled out of bed and got ready for the day, then went out walking.
I’d put off returning to the library yesterday, not because I didn’t need to decipher the codes on the flash drive, but because part of me hadn’t wanted to. Now that I knew I’d been inside the Lacuna building, I could have additional context to crack the codes. Since I was being honest with myself, there was also a phone call I needed to make.
I stopped by a payphone and used the phonebook there to locate the number for the hospital. I asked the attendant to speak to a nurse for Dr. Carter in the emergency unit.
Smooth jazz crackled through the speaker as I waited on hold. My foot tapped on the pavement. A clammy sheen coated my palms.
“This is Susan.”
“Hello.” My mind went numb. I was forced to remind myself that knowing the truth, good or bad, had to be better than being trapped forever in a fog. “I’m calling in regards to the John Doe who arrived via ambulance a week ago with a traumatic brain injury.”
Susan didn’t respond.
I waited another moment, then continued, “Have there been any further developments in uncovering the man’s identity? To the best of your knowledge, has anyone stepped forward and reported him missing?”
An audible inhale carried over the line.
“Tristan, is that you?” Concern tinged Susan’s voice. “If it’s you, you shouldn’t have left until the doctor cleared you for discharge.”
The false name hit me like a slap in the face.
“So, no new information,” I said, more statement than question.
“Tristan—”
“My name is not Tristan. Thank you for your time, Susan.” I slammed the phone on the receiver.
Consumed in thought, I walked down the street in the direction of the library, barely taking in my surroundings.
I’d gained nothing from the call.
That wasn’t entirely true. I’d learned no one had filed a missing persons police report that the authorities could connect to me. No one caring or noticing my absence felt right.
A bright red mailbox caught my eye. It was decorated with little wooden birds lined up along the top. It sparked something—a memory? I stopped and inspected the box, curious.
I’d walked this sidewalk twice a day, every day I’d gone to the library, and this was the first time I’d noticed this mailbox.
This was also the first time I’d been through here knowing that I wasn’t Tristan. That truth could change everything, including my perception of my surroundings.
