I wake for the final time just before dawn. I checked on her every hour on the hour throughout the night and took her vitals. So far, she hasn’t spiked a fever, her blood pressure is within normal limits, and her breathing is steady. As a medical professional, I should be happy that my patient is stable after what could have been a deadly fall. But I’m not pleased. I’m frustrated and my worry only seems to increase with each passing second.

What was this woman doing in the middle of the road covered in blood? Why did she run? Was she the victim of some horrible accident…or the assailant in some altercation? I don’t think she lied when she said she couldn’t remember anything. She does have a concussion; the CT scan couldn’t lie even if she wanted to. And my gut is telling me that she isn’t faking and that she harbors a fear that she doesn’t consciously know. I saw the dread in her eyes when Trent approached her with that syringe. How her fingers fisted the hospital sheets until her knuckles turned white…just like her face did.

I stand up from the recliner I slept in last night in the corner of her—my—room and walk over to her. She is sound asleep. I watch her wrap herself up in the comforter until she is a tightly bound cocoon. Shit! She’s cold. Around three o’clock in the morning, I heard a strange sound coming from the vents in the bedroom floor. A visit to the basement confirmed that my heater, or hopefully just a part, was busted. I’ll need to fix it and soon. Winter is coming.

In the meantime, I’ll need to chop more firewood. There’s only a few more logs left in the pile I found behind the cabin. But I’m not worried. There are miles of woods surrounding me. I grab my own blanket and cover her up with another layer. I then toss one of the remaining logs on the fire, throw some heavy clothes on and slip out the back door. About a half hour later, I enter the cabin and stop dead in my tracks. My patient is standing in my living room wearing the sweatpants and shirt I dressed her in after her shower.

My thoughts go to last night, when I brought her back to my cabin. Although I cleaned her up as best as I could at the hospital with a sponge and a bowl of water, her skin had still been caked with dirt and dried blood. She awoke, at least to the point that she allowed me to guide her into the shower and wash away the grime. With her back to me I was able to keep it together, making sure my focus was on cleaning her soiled skin and matted hair; that was until I turned her in my arms. With her eyes half-shut she stumbled, causing her full tits to mash against my soaked through t-shirt. I felt her nipples pebble as I steadied her. My cock twitched, which surprised the shit out of me since there hasn’t been any movement down there in over a year. Not wanting to be caught with a hard-on, I quickly finished and dressed her in the baggiest clothes I could find.

My plan, my hope that she would appear significantly less attractive if she wore clothing that didn’t hug every curve that I damn well knew she had, has not panned out. Standing here with my clothes draped over her petite frame, she looks as beautiful as she did when she was covered in suds. I don’t know why I like seeing her in my clothes, her face clean of all makeup, her hair natural and flowing down her back, but I do. And that pisses me off.

“I’m sorry. Did I wake you?” I ask, putting my attention back on the firewood in my arms. I walk in and set a few logs next to the fireplace in the small living room. I take the rest to my bedroom.

“Um…no. My stomach did,” she says from behind me.

I turn around. She is standing in the doorway to my bedroom. The small smile she flashes frustrates me. “You got your appetite back. That’s a very good sign.” I also notice that she isn’t wincing every waking second and color has returned to her cheeks. “I’ll make us something to eat. Afterward if you’re up to it, we can take a walk outside and get some fresh air.” She’s no longer smiling but beaming. Either it doesn’t take much to make this woman happy or she’s feeling so cooped up that a stroll sounds like paradise.

I think about Miranda, how she would feel about living out in the middle of the woods. In a one-bedroom cabin with no heat, no television, no bars or clubs within walking distance. I try to picture my ex-wife looking at me like this nameless woman is right now, happy just to go for a walk with me. The mental image I conjure up of Miranda being furious and miserable actually takes the edge off and I feel the muscles in my face relax. I may even be smiling a little.

“I would love that. Do I have time to get a shower?” she asks.

“Do you feel steady enough?” I ask.

Please say yes, I silently command her. I may be in the medical field, have seen many grown men and women naked over the years as I treated them, but I don’t have it in me to assist her in the shower again. Not without having some very vivid and unprofessional thoughts.

“I think I’ll be okay. I’ll crack the door again, just in case.”

Why is she so willing to trust me? I don’t understand her. And I definitely can’t comprehend why she makes me angry and confused one minute and horny the next. I need her to get away from me. She’s my patient, nothing more.

I already checked for a wedding ring when she was in the hospital, but for some crazy reason my eyes drift to her left hand. No band of gold encircles her slender finger, no indentation to show that she may have worn a ring at one time. But that doesn’t mean anything. I was a devoted and faithful husband yet I never wore a ring, and not because I was ashamed to be married, but because I just didn’t like the feel of wearing one. Maybe she is the same way. She could have a fiancé, a husband sick with worry wondering where the hell she is. That agitated feeling is back and so is the scowl on my face. I know that to be the case because the woman’s smile completely fades and her eyes narrow.

Time to make my exit. “I’ll get started on breakfast. Are you craving anything in particular?” I ask.

“I’m not sure what kind of food I like, so I guess I’m up for anything.” She shrugs her shoulders and then walks into the bathroom. A couple minutes later I hear the shower turn on. I retrieve some fresh lounge pants and a new t-shirt. I go and knock on the cracked bathroom door. I am just about to call out, but I don’t know what to say. We need to pick out a temporary name. I can’t keep gaining her attention by yelling ‘um’ or ‘hey you.’ “I have some clean clothes if you would like them.” I hear the curtain rings slide over the metal shower rod.

“Um…sure.”

“I’ll just put them on the vanity.” With my eyes glued to the floor, I step into the bathroom. I can’t risk catching a glimpse of her slick tight body behind the opaque curtain. But it doesn’t matter that I don’t even so much as peek. My imagination is alive and well and forcing thoughts and images in my head that have no right to be there. This woman is suffering from amnesia and has no idea who the hell she is or what danger may surround her. Frustrated, I gather the t-shirt and sweatpants she wore last night off the floor and leave the bathroom. But the scent of my shampoo, shampoo that is now being massaged into her scalp by her fingers, lingers and follows me into the kitchen and down to the basement.

I’m mumbling to myself as I toss the clothes into the washer. Still grumbling words I can’t even decipher, I go to the kitchen and scope out the contents of my fridge. The groceries I bought last night right before I almost took out the woman now in my shower stayed cold in my truck while we were in the hospital. The temperature hadn’t dropped enough to freeze the lake that flanks my property to a block of ice, but it had been chilly enough to keep the food from spoiling. My eyes drift from the bags of chopped lettuce to the pint of strawberries and blueberries.

As a medic I have seen many head injuries, one too many concussions. Which means I know what my patient may experience in the days to come. Headaches, slurred speech, nausea, loss of balance, fatigue and sleep disturbances are just a few symptoms I need to look out for. While she was asleep, I researched the activities she shouldn’t engage in as a result of her condition and foods that she should ingest. I decide to start with some fruit. The antioxidants in the berries are known to help those suffering from a concussion. For the main meal, I go with something safe and make a grilled chicken salad.

I’m tossing the chicken strips into the salad when my new housemate emerges from the bedroom. She is wearing the clothes I set out for her and her hair is wrapped in a towel. I try not to stare, but it’s impossible. She is that beautiful. I clear my throat and pretend to focus on the cut I can’t see. “I’ll need to check the stitches on your leg later, make sure that it’s not infected.”

“Thanks, Griffin,” she says, taking a seat at the small kitchen table. I bring over the bowl of salad and the fruit and place them in front of her. She dishes some salad onto my plate first and then hers while I go to the fridge for two bottles of water. “And not just for breakfast.” Her shoulders slump a little as she picks up her fork. I know that she is most likely feeling lost and helpless. It’s a shitty feeling. I felt that way while I was recuperating. My sister nursed my ass back to health and dealt with my lousy attitude for months before I was able to get back on my feet. I would never forget how humiliating it was to have my sister help me to the bathroom so I could take a shit. But Corinne didn’t care. She just told me to shut the hell up and let her help me, which I begrudgingly did because I didn’t have anyone else. Trent would have helped, but I didn’t want to burden him with my medical and mental problems. I shared a little about what happened to me with Trent, but only Corinne and her husband knew just how much damage Miranda caused and I wanted it to stay that way.

“You’re welcome,” I say, spearing a piece of chicken.

“So, I noticed that you don’t have a television,” she says. She twists the cap off her water bottle and takes a hearty sip, which makes me happy. She needs fluids. Staying hydrated is critical to her recovery. I know firsthand how important it is for the body to function. I saw grown men, trained killers, physically fit with not an ounce of fat on them fall not from a bullet, but from dehydration. Most soldiers didn’t give me shit when I told them that they needed to keep drinking while out on a mission, but some stubborn bastards didn’t listen, and they were the shitheads who I had to treat when they fainted or their bodies started to shut down.

“I haven’t had the cable installed yet. But it’s on my list of things to do this week.”

“When did you move in?” she asks, taking a bite of her chicken.

“A few hours before I…found you.” The color drains from her face at the mention of last night. I know it is going to be difficult to talk about, but we need to discuss maybe not the events leading up to last night because she can’t yet remember them, but what we do know. “Dr. Reddick…Trent…is a friend of mine. We served together in the Navy. He grew up in Quarry Hill, the town just thirty minutes from here. After he was discharged from the Navy, he took a job as a physician at the local hospital in town. I trust him. So much so, that I called him minutes after I almost hit you with my truck. With my training I could easily have patched up your leg and the wound on your head, but I feared you had a head injury that I couldn’t see. He told me to bring you to the hospital for tests.” I watch her closely. The way her breath hitches. How her eyes search mine. “But something didn’t sit right, and I asked Trent to keep your admission to the hospital off the books.”

Her gaze drifts from me to her plate and she sets her fork down. “So…no one at the hospital, other than you and Trent, knows I was there? No one else knows I’m here?”

She knows the answers to those questions, yet her fear remains. “I haven’t contacted the police, but do you want me to? Have you changed your mind?”

“No,” she says without hesitation. Her eyes are focused on her salad, but I would bet everything I own that her head is somewhere else. I know she’s scared, and probably going out of her mind as she wills her memories free. For a split selfish moment, I wish I was her. I wish my memory could be wiped clean, that I would never remember Miranda or the brother who would forever be dead to me.

“Okay,” I say.

I’m not in a good place at the moment. I can feel it. My therapist back in Philly would be pissed at me right now. I haven’t started looking for a therapist out here and I am still refusing to take the medication he prescribed when I was first diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. At the time, I scoffed and then flat out refused to believe that I had PTSD. I dismissed the nightmares, the irritability, my need to be left alone and isolated from even those I loved and told myself that I was just weak, a pathetic man who couldn’t get over the fact that his wife cheated and tried to kill him. But weeks of feeling that way turned to months and I still couldn’t function. So, I swallowed my pride and accepted that I was human after all and began to see a therapist in the city. Thanks to him, the nightmares ceased and I can now tolerate being around people again, though I still prefer my solitude. But no matter how many therapy sessions I sat through, discussing my triggers and coping strategies, I know I’m still avoiding the one thing that can remind me of the incident, remind me of her.

Women.

I haven’t been with a woman since. The thought of trusting one again scares the shit out of me.

I watch my breakfast companion pick up her fork and resume eating. My focus is back on her, not my horrific past, and that is where it needs to remain. We need to find out who she is and why she fears the police. My thoughts take a darker turn and I grit my teeth. Who was she running from? An abusive husband or boyfriend?

I don’t like thinking about her with someone else. And I hate thinking that someone may have hurt or wants to hurt her. I shake my head, dispelling the thought. “While you were asleep last night, I checked the missing persons reports and searched the local news outlets. I didn’t find anyone matching your description, but we can continue looking after breakfast if you’re up to it. I don’t have a computer, but we can use my phone.” I stab at my salad and I’m just about to take a bite when I see her face grow as white as the napkin that is now clenched between her fingers.

“Why can’t I remember, Griffin? How is it that I don’t know my name but I’m certain that you, someone I just met, won’t hurt me even though you have a rifle sitting over there?” she asks, pointing to the kitchen counter.

The gesture should make my blood run cold. The last time a woman held a gun in my presence, I almost paid with my life. I’m waiting for my body to shut down, to run and hide and beg me to forget. But miraculously, I don’t do any of those things. Instead, I meet this woman’s gaze and stare into deep blue eyes, not chocolate brown ones. I can’t see the woman’s hair beneath the towel she has wrapped around her head, but I can remember her long, chestnut locks. How soft her hair was, like silk between my fingers as I washed her hair. How different it is from Miranda’s blonde waves.

She is not Miranda.

And she could be in trouble.

I wipe my mouth with a napkin and ask, “I would like to teach you how to shoot that, unless you’re opposed to guns?”

“Do you think someone is after me?” she asks, her eyes still fixed on the gun.

I gently take her chin between two fingers and force her to look at me. Her eyes drift to my lips and I quickly release her and start eating again. My heart is beating a mile a minute and I feel like I’m going to break out into a sweat. But somehow I’m able to say, “It’s very possible. Since Trent grew up in the area and the cabin belonged to his uncle, I asked him what surrounded me. He told me that the closest home that he is aware of is three miles from here, and that it belongs to an elderly woman. Google Maps confirmed the older woman’s cabin is approximately 3.1 miles north of here. It’s likely that there are other cabins, but the woods are pretty dense. Trent did me a favor and took to the woods this morning on foot, close to where I found you. He didn’t find anything, no cabin that you may have…”

“Escaped from?” she asks.

That thought had crossed my mind, but I hadn’t the balls to verbalize that theory. I look over and see her fingers tremble against the wooden table. “Possibly. But I did find you in the road. You could have fled from a vehicle or may have been dropped off there. It’s likely you don’t live in Quarry Hill. Trent grew up in town, in a town where everyone knows everybody, and he didn’t recognize you.”

***

?

What am I doing? This man is helping me and how do I repay him? By possibly leading danger to his front door. I stand from the table. “I need to leave.”

He grabs my wrist. “You’re not going anywhere,” he says, his face hard as stone. His grip doesn’t hurt, but it’s firm and I look at how his massive hand easily circles my wrist. Oddly enough it doesn’t scare me, which is confusing. It just pisses me off. Apparently, I don’t enjoy being told what to do, and this realization pleases me. Despite my circumstances, I’m a strong person, not some doormat or pushover.

But then reality sets in. I have no money, no idea who I am, nothing. Not even the clothes on my back belong to me. “Where are my clothes?” I ask.

“I burned them,” he says, his eyes boring into mine, his grip not letting up.

“You think I’m involved in some type of crime, don’t you?” I ask.

“I’m not sure what we’re dealing with, but I do know this. For some reason, you don’t want the police involved. So, for your safety and mine, it’s best that you stay here until we figure out who you are and why you were covered from head to toe in blood.”

I no longer have an appetite. And I sure as shit don’t feel strong and empowered.

“What if I never remember? What if this amnesia isn’t temporary? What then?” I know I’m rambling and on the verge of tears. But I don’t care. This is a living nightmare, one I will only awaken from if something or someone has the ability to unlock my memories. Griffin stands, his hand still wrapped around my wrist, but I no longer mind his touch or the safety I know he can provide. With his free hand, he cups my chin and I watch his eyes try to read mine.

“We’ll figure this out. But you’re going to have to trust me.”

How? I have no idea who he is. He could be a psychopath for all I know. Why does he live in the woods all alone miles away from the next living soul? Why does a man in his late twenties, possibly early thirties, and looking like some Greek god find the need to live like a hermit?

“If you can’t trust me, then trust your instincts,” he says.

After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, I nod and his hand falls away from my chin. I hide my discomfort from the loss of his touch, sit back down at the table, and finish my breakfast in silence.