Page 82 of Born in Fire

Who am I?

The question forms and dissolves, too complex for my fragmented consciousness. There are more important things to worry about. Cold. I am cold. The ash circle offers no warmth,though the ground beneath radiates a fading heat. Beyond the circle stands a forest, dark pines stretching toward the pale sky.

I try to stand. Fall. Try again. My legs shake but hold. I am naked, this body female, slender, unmarked. No injuries, yet everything hurts. As if I’ve been unmade and poorly reassembled.

Wind cuts through me.

Need shelter. Need… covering.

The thoughts come in broken fragments, instinct rather than memory. I stagger forward, each step more certain than the last, as my body remembers what my mind cannot.

The forest floor is rough against my feet. Pine needles. Dirt. Stones. I catalog sensations without understanding their significance. A distant mechanical growl draws me forward. Toward sound means toward people. People mean help. These connections form without conscious thought.

The trees thin. Light grows stronger. The mechanical sound resolves into something large and rumbling. A vehicle—the word appears from nowhere—where two men are loading equipment. I stumble toward them.

“Jesus Christ!” The shorter man spots me first, dropping a chainsaw that hits the ground with a metallic protest.

“What the hell?” the other one says, stopping what he’s doing.

The short man turns to the other, who seems dumbfounded. “Hank! Get the blanket from the truck!”

I stop, swaying slightly. The men’s expressions register as shock, concern, fear. I should feel something about my nakedness before them. Shame? Embarrassment? The concepts exist without emotional weight.

“Miss? Are you hurt?” The first man approaches slowly, hands raised as if calming a wild animal. He keeps his eyes fixed on my face with deliberate effort. “I’m Mike. That’s Hank. We’re gonna help you, okay?”

Words form in my mind but die before reaching my tongue. My throat feels unused, raw.

The younger man—Hank—returns with a blanket, handing it to Mike while keeping his distance. Mike approaches cautiously, extending the blanket without coming too close.

“Here. Cover yourself.” His voice is gruff but kind. “Can you tell us your name?”

Name.

The concept exists but attaches to nothing. I should have a name. Everyone has a name. The absence creates a hollow space inside me.

“I…” My voice emerges as a rasp. Is it even mine? “Don’t know.”

Mike exchanges glances with Hank, who whispers something about drugs or cults. I wrap the scratchy blanket around my shoulders, the rough wool both irritating and comforting against my hypersensitive skin.

“We’re gonna take you to a hospital, okay?” Mike gestures toward their truck. “Get you checked out.”

Hospital. Doctors. The words trigger a wariness I don’t understand. But cold and confusion outweigh unexplained fear. I nod once.

“Where did she come from?” Hank asks as they guide me toward the truck. “There’s nothing out here for miles.”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Mike responds. “Let’s just get her help.”

As they help me into the truck’s cab, I glance back in the direction of the circle. Something important happened there. Something impossible. The thought slips away before I can grasp it.

The truck’s interior smells of coffee, sweat, and pine sap. The blanket scratches. The seat vibrates beneath me as the engine roars to life. I catch a glimpse of myself in the cracked rearviewmirror—a stranger’s face staring back with wide, confused eyes. Pale skin. Oddly gold hair matted with ash. For an instant, as Hank turns to look at me, I could swear my eyes flash with golden light.

“You remember anything at all, miss?” Mike asks as we bump down a logging road. “Your friends? How you got out here?”

I try to access memories that should exist but don’t. There’s nothing before the ash. Nothing before this moment.

“No,” I manage, the word feeling foreign in my mouth.

“You think she’s one of those hikers that got lost last month?” Hank asks Mike, as if I can’t hear or understand them.

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