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Something in my brain told me not to continue on, but to explore this area more closely. Instead of heading forward, I took a turn.
I’d been looking at everything wrong. I no longer need to determine where I’d been working when the accident happened.
I needed to figure out where I’d parked.
The key in my pocket belonged to an older model Hyundai. Something told me when I found the car, I would recognize it. I couldn’t think of a more efficient method of search than pounding the pavement.
Scanning the streets as I went, my first stop was the parking lot beside the Lacuna building. No luck. From there, I slipped into the nearest parking garage. Out of the dozens of cars inside, only two were older than 2010. Neither was a Hyundai. Neither fit the key.
By the time I reached the third level of the garage, a security vehicle began trailing me. That was fine, I was done here anyway.
I left and circled outward in a spiral pattern, block by block.
Hours of fruitless search didn’t discourage me.
But the snap of my flip-flop breaking did.
As soon as I heard the rubberband-like sound, and felt the loosening of the plastic strap between my toes, I looked down. My left shoe was completely broken.
I attempted to ask for assistance from passersby.
I had to hobble my way another block and a half before I could get someone to speak to me and tell me where I could purchase a replacement. That standoffishness was a quality of the city that I’d previously found significantly more charming than I did at the moment.
Inside the small bodega, I purchased something to eat and a new pair of flip flops.
Then, when I returned outside, I spotted something I hadn’t seen on my way in—a busted car on the corner painted cardinal red.
It was mine.
I wasn’t sure how I knew, but I did. It was as certain to me as the fact that I wasn’t married or dating someone in my life before. Only three blocks from the Lacuna building, I’d found her.
I knew this car had a small scratch on the top left corner of the bumper that I hadn’t had the chance to buff out yet. I circled around back and checked the scratch, finding it exactly where I expected it to be.
I gave the old girl a pat on the trunk. This vehicle was more than a car, it was my pride and joy, a hold-out from my life before…something.
There was a monumental event that had shifted my world entirely, but for the life of me, I had no idea what that event was.
I shrugged off the gap in memory, pocketed the stack of parking tickets on the windshield, and used the key to open the door. I slipped into the driver’s seat and ran my hands over the wheel. The bumps and grooves felt right on my fingertips, as did the smell.
Leather, oak, citrus—my favorite soap.
I closed my eyes and filtered through a mishmash of memories. My mother had helped me save for this car, setting aside everything she could to boost my chances of success. The weight had rested on her shoulders alone, and so I’d tried to do as much as I could, as early as I could, to help her.
Had my father died when I was young? Had he never wanted to be a part of our lives?
The second rang true, but it was more an inkling than a certainty in my mind.
I opened my eyes. A suit jacket and tie sat folded on the passenger seat. I checked the jacket pockets and found them empty, then leaned over and opened the glove box.
A wallet and phone slid to the edge of the compartment door. I grabbed the wallet and pulled out a huge wad of cash. I thumbed through the stack—thousands of dollars in fresh hundreds. Between the old car and the clear evidence of wealth, I’d found support for my original theory that I had been in the field of espionage or some other less-than-reputable line of work.
I shoved the cash into my pocket.
Until I knew for sure, I wouldn’t use any cards. I didn’t want someone to track them and pinpoint my location.
I hovered my thumb over the top of a driver’s license.
This was it—the moment of truth.
