At first I just lay there in that big bed, staring up at the blurry canopy, trying to remember … anything. Outside, steady rain beat on the window. Fingers drumming in my brain. What was it? What did I need to remember? Then I felt something sharp in my hair. I turned over in my haze and saw a kitten and a dark mop of hair snoring just beyond it. I stared at the tangle of hair and the girl attached to it, trying to figure out who she was. And who I was. Who was I? Memories began to float in, faintly, like ghosts. Vaguely, I remembered a horse, a glittery crash, running. Then I remembered an important word, my word: Annie. It was like I’d slipped free of my name and now I was putting it back on. I’m Annie, I thought. That felt better. I glanced over at the girl beside me, and I remembered: Molly. Each memory was like a star in a constellation. The picture was becoming clearer. I looked at my hands and they looked familiar. Then, as if moving backward in time, I slid further—memories of the dark hotel, the smell of carnations.
