It was all weird. We didn’t talk. I don’t know why. We didn’t open our mouths. We just sat there, silent, chatting. It’s not you, I argued. It’s the feed thing. You’re not like that. Maybe I am like that. Maybe that’s what’s wrong. She rubbed her hands together. I’m sorry. Please. Tell Quendy I’m sorry. Her father was walking down the stairs near us. We could hear him through the wall. She chatted, I lost a year of my memories. I didn’t understand, first. What? I lost a year. During the seizure. I can’t remember anything from the year before I got the feed. When I was six. The information is just gone. There’s nothing there. She was pressing her palms into her thighs as hard as she could. She watched herself real careful like it was a crafts project. She went, Nothing. No smells. No talking. No pictures. For a whole year. All gone. I just looked at her face. There were lines on it I hadn’t seen before. She looked sick, like her mouth would taste like the hospital.
