In my twilight sleep, there's an angel next to me.

She's in the ambulance holding my hand when I'm gasping for breath and smeared with blood.

If you're seeing me, Griffin, that means you've touched my soul.

As I'm wheeled into a hospital, she's in every molecule of the air I struggle to breathe, as pain spears my chest.

If you feel me, Griffin, that means you've touched my heart.

In the emergency room, as doctors and nurses speak in a language I don't understand, the angel hovers near the ceiling, looking at me, protecting me.

I love you, Griffin...

In my twilight sleep, my angel's name is Juliette.

* * *

"We gaan je in een medisch..."

I have no idea what the doctor's saying. Is it even a language? Is it even a doctor?

"English," says a sharp female voice. "He probably speaks English. We found a passport in a bag."

I struggle to open an eyelid halfway, in time to see a woman's hands fan through a blue booklet.

"Finnegan Davidson." Her voice is accented.

Who the hell is Finnegan Davidson?

The doctor puts his hand on my shoulder. "Mr. Davidson?" His voice has the same guttural accent as the woman and his sentences fade in and out. "You're in the hospital...Amsterdam...You were injured...bombing...induced coma. Like a reboot for your brain."

It's a never-ending dream.

Bursts of bright light. Rhythmic shrill beeps. A crisp, antiseptic smell of bleach and soap.

Nurses float like ghosts, speaking in harsh accents while poking and prodding my arms, my legs, every nerve.

Those are the lucid parts of my dream, when everything is semi-normal.

There are also the surreal moments, where I think my body's covered in sticky black tar, and when one nurse, young and pretty, turns into a blue-haired witch with glowing purple eyes.

Your blood, she whispers. Now.

I'm convinced she wants to remove all the blood from my body and leave me dry as a skeleton in the desert. I try to scream, but nothing comes out.

Images and sounds flicker in my mind, like an old television channel coming into focus, then fading into static.

Sometimes I think I can hear my favorite DJs. Avicii. Kygo. Juan Atkins. Are they here, spinning? Where am I? Their beats seem to throb in time with the beeping of machines. I know I've heard this music before. But I can't remember when, or where, or why I recall their names and not my own.

The angel's here, too.

Those are the transcendent moments, the ones where I see her face. She's ethereal, pale, green-eyed and serene. I reach to touch her long, beautiful hair, but the gooey tar won't let me raise my hand from the bed.

I want to tell her I love her. I long to whisper those words in her ear.

Once, she climbs in bed with me, wrapping me in her arms. The tar disappears, and I turn my head to bury my face in her hair. It smells like warmth and jasmine and sugar.

I'm home, finally. She whispers in my ear.

I love you, Griffin.

She vanishes into the haze, and the tar returns, spreading from my bed to my pillow, until it finally overtakes the whole room, swallowing it in sticky blackness.

I'm sobbing. Begging for my life.

I have to wake up. I struggle against the tar, but only exhaust myself. The blue-haired nurse gives me another pin prick, and I feel my blood dissolving.

Why can't I wake up from this black haze...

"Finn?"

My eyes flutter open and I strain to hear the woman's voice.

"Ooof." I let out a long groan.

"How do you feel, Finnegan? Or do you prefer Finn?" She's older, probably around forty, a sleek golden bob and concerned blue eyes. Her English is flecked with a slight accent.

"Tired." I smack my mouth and blink a few times.

"Of course you do. I'm Dr. Jansen."

"Hi." My voice sounds like my vocal box has been scraped by rough-grain sandpaper.

"It's normal that you're tired. You've been in an induced coma for two weeks. We brought you out of it. Slowly. Your progress is as expected for your injuries. You're a young man, so I predict we'll see some good results from here on in, if we can avoid infection."

She continues to talk about medical stuff, something about a teaching hospital that's doing a study on bombing and terrorism victims. I'm focused on trying to sit up. I don't get further than lifting my head, but that small movement leaves me winded and exhausted.

"No, no, no. Relax. We're not encouraging any movement yet, Finn. We'll be getting physical therapy here to regain your strength. I have bad news: you no longer have six-pack abs."

I try to smirk, but my cracked, dry lips smart too much. I grunt in response.

"What...what happened?" I have a vague idea that I shouldn't ask too many questions, but surely this one's safe.

"You were the victim of a bombing. According to what the police officers told us, you were walking on the sidewalk near a warehouse when someone threw a bomb inside. You were the lucky one. Three people inside were killed."

A column of ice runs down my spine. "I ... don't ... recall."

"I wouldn't think so. You had a head injury, massive internal bleeding, and two broken arms. It's amazing you're doing as well as you are. But you're a strong young man, Finn, and that helps a lot." She pats my shoulder, and I look down. White casts cocoon both my arms.

Why is she calling me Finn?

"I don't know how much memory loss you have, because we haven't been able to talk with you. I was hoping this would jog your mind. The officers found it on the street near the bombing site."

My eyes flicker to two other people in the room. They're wearing white doctor's coats and holding clipboards, writing furiously. Maybe this is still a nightmare? Dr. Jansen turns and lifts a large canvas tote bag into her lap, then extracts a rectangular black satchel, with a wide black strap.

"Recognize this?" She holds up the leather bag so it's at my eye level, and turns it around a few times.

It hurts to frown, but I do. Should I say no? Yes? As the seconds tick past, memories of what I was doing in Amsterdam filter into my brain.

I was here on a drug deal, I think. Not. Good. Nausea bubbles up in my stomach.

"Here's what was inside." She undoes the buckle and opens it, extracting a blue United States Passport.

She opens it to the photo page, and there I am. With the name Finn Davidson.

Ohhh fuck. Right. That's who I am. Or who I'm supposed to say I am.

She rests the passport on a table next to the bed, then takes out a half-eaten pack of mints, a tube of lip balm and five Euros in coin.

"That's all we found. Thank God your passport was there, otherwise we'd have had no idea who you were."

I nod slowly, the gesture making my neck muscles scream in protest.

"Any of these things look familiar?"

I shake my head weakly.

"Can you remember the name of anyone we should call? Parents? Brothers? Sisters? Friends?"

Juliette.

I don't know exactly why, but an instinct tells me to shut up. An ominous feeling settles in my stomach and I decide not to mention her name. It's safer for her. I think she's my girlfriend, but I'm not sure of anything anymore.

My eyelids tug down. "Tired."

"Of course. You're on some pretty powerful pain medications," she says hastily. She scoops up items I hear the rattle of the coins as they hit the bottom of the bag.

I open my eyes and glance at her. She's nodding to the men in the white coats.

"I'll return tomorrow. You rest. You've been through a lot. If you need anything, here's the nurse's call button." She taps on the side of the hospital bed, where a remote control-like device is attached. "And I'll leave this here on your tray. Maybe looking at it will bring back some memories of what you were doing the night you were hurt, and ideas of someone we can call to help you."

"Thank you," I whisper, and she gently smiles, then rises and leaves the room.

With all of my available strength, I turn my head to look at the leather bag on the tray.

Holy shit.

I let out a shuddering exhale that makes my chest feel like someone with a pickaxe is carving my ribs from the inside.

That's Zoe's bag.

____