Page 2 of Vasily the Hammer

The Marlboro Man hands me a bottle of water, and there’s a soft, sympathetic smile. A glimmer in his eyes. The giant calloused hand he’s squeezing my knee with comforts me. I think he’s a good guy. I bet he doesn’t believe he is, but he is.

I drink the water slowly at his urging, and when my hand gets too shaky, he takes it back.

“We’re going to get you medical care just as soon as we get back to base, okay?”

“Thank you,” I manage. My voice isn’t just raspy; it’s barely there. It sounds like someone actually choked me.

He nods. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

I know that he is or used to be a smoker. I know the Heimlich maneuver and commercial kitchen efficiency. I know men’s designers, and I know the warning signs to look for with men.

I know what a voice sounds like after someone’s been choked.

I know the longest river in the world.

I know algebra, and I know that I don’t know Calculus.

I’m pretty sure I know every word to Twelfth Night.

“I... I don’t know. I don’t know who I am.”

From the way the Marlboro Man— Gio— described it as a base, I expect triage: an open-air tent with flimsy cots and people with barely any medical training doing their best to sort out who was going to survive. I don’t know, I guess it’s just the fact that none of the men’s uniforms have any sort of military or law enforcement insignia on them.

It takes at least twenty minutes to get to the base, and I learn in that time that I’ve been rescued from a sex trafficking ring, of all things. I didn’t know that was even a real thing, at least in the sense that citizens of post-industrial countries could get nabbed while going about their day. I thought it was more like people in developing regions getting sold into it.

I think? I don’t know. It’s crazy how I know so much about the world in general but I can’t say how old I am or where I was born or what my favorite food is. I have a strong suspicion that these men who are ‘helping’ us aren’t on the right side of the law. Gio might inherently be a good man, but he’s done bad things. Am I a bad person too?

But then we arrive at the base, and although the building is nondescript on the outside and seems to be a hodgepodge of offices, dorms, and paramilitary training, there’s a state-of-the-art medical wing that’s fully stocked and staffed. The bed is plush and adjustable, allowing me to sit myself up just enough to not feel fully comatose but not get a headache from being too upright either.

A nurse comes in first to talk with me, get as much info as she can, and bully me into not apologizing when I don’t know anything.The first doctor checks my vitals and orders some saline and imaging. After the scans, a neurologist comes by to explain that I do have a concussion and there is some swelling in my brain, but there’s also bruising around my neck, indicating I was choked, and something in all of that is likely the culprit of the amnesia. He tells me that, for now, the best course of action is to stabilize and monitor, that there’s typically not much to be done with amnesia except wait it out, but I knew that already too. I suspect from TV.

It’s awful. I have no idea who I am. I have no idea who’s missing me right now, if anyone is. I don’t know if there’s a pet who’s starving or... or...

I wait until the neurologist leaves to cry about it, though. I get it. I understand why we’re just stuck here. I’m hoping someone is checking for Missing Persons matching my description, but that’s not the neurologist’s gig.

The next people to visit are both a doctor and a nurse, and the pairing tells me who the doctor is before she even introduces herself

Before she shows me the SAEK she’s brought with her. Well, that’s what she calls it, but I know it by another name.

A rape kit.

My mouth — my bruised but not fractured hyoid bone — goes dry at that. “I . . . I have my panties. On. I don’t . . . I wouldn’t have them if . . .”

It’s the nurse who takes my hand. “It seems awful. We know. But we’re going to do this as fast as possible, and it won’t hurt any. It won’t even be as bad as your usual gynecological visit. And after that, I’m going to help you shower up. If you’re hungry, we can get you food. The neurologist just wants you in here for observation for a few hours before he releasesyou—”

“To where?” My voice is wobbly, tears threatening.

“We have apartments in the south wing. You couldn’t have gotten rescued by a better bunch. There’s housing for everyone who works here, plenty of space for you until they find your people or you find something fulfilling to do here.”

“I don’t know what I can do. A baby kitten is less helpless than me.”

“Every day will be better than the last, I promise.”

The doctor nods in agreement. I take a deep breath, nod to them and myself, and undress.

It’s... not awful. I hate it, but it’s not awful. And the way the doctor talks, it sounds like she thinks the tests will come back negative. But as she performs the vaginal exam, something catches her eye. She squints— which, hating that— and asks the nurse for a shaver. She removes a patch of pubic hair and says, “Did you know you have a tattoo here?”

I cringe. “I didn’t think I was the type to tattoo my, uhhh,area, but...” I shrug. I guess I am. Or was at some point.

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