Page 1 of Begin Again
Prologue
One Year Ago
April 2028
AN OVERWHELMING BLAST OF antiseptic fills my lungs when I suck in a breath for what feels like the first time in a year. Antiseptic, bleach, and the slightest tang of metal. I can almost taste it on my tongue. Speaking of my tongue, it feels like sandpaper against the roof of my mouth, and my throat feels like a thousand nails have been scraped across the raw flesh. The word is shrouded in darkness because my eyes won’t open. No matter how hard I try, the muscles refuse to cooperate with my direction. Loud whooshes in my eardrums give way to a variety of sounds…
A door closes in the distance.
A few loud dings echo through the air.
Muffled voices speak behind a wall, but I can’t make out what they’re saying.
Finally, I force my eyelids open, blinking one, two, three times until finally the weights fall off, and they peel back to reveal a blinding light.
I try to shield my eyes, but my left arm feels like a ton of bricks, and it stays in place at my side. My right is easier and it moves freely. I rub my eyes until they adjust to reveal a…hospital room.
I’m in a hospital.
Why am I in a hospital?
I have to get out of here. I have to—
“Oh!” A shrill voice sends a jolt through my head, and the dull pain sitting in my left temple cracks my skull in two. The voice belongs to an older woman—a nurse—dressed in blue scrubs with yellow ducks on them. Her blonde hair is pulled into a tight bun on top of her head, and her eyes are hidden behind thick, round glasses. She stands in the doorway with a wide smile. “You’re awake! Good. I’ll get the doctor. He’ll be so glad to hear this.”
Maybe he can tell me why I’m here. Where is here anyway?
The nurse returns with a gray plastic pitcher and a white cup filled to the brim with ice chips.
“I was startin’ to think you’d never wake up,” she says, pouring water into the cup, opening the bendy straw, and stabbing it through the ice. She holds it up to my mouth. “Drink, sweetie, it’ll help your throat. You’ve been out a few days. Guarantee your throat’s as raw as sandpaper.”
Her name tag dangles from a daisy clip off the pocket of her scrubs—Janet, it reads. She radiates the same energy you’d expect your grandma to have. She has crow’s feet in the corners of her eyes and a smile that drags down around the sides of her lips. As she holds the cup to my mouth, I can see a jagged line on the outside of her thumb extending through her wrist to her arm.
“T-thank y-you,” I rasp out, barely able to hear myself.
“Take it easy, darlin’. Don’t want to strain yourself.”
“Good morning, sunshine!”
My stomach twists in knots when an older man walks into the room. He’s dressed professionally, with a white lab coat over his clothes,Doctor Sanders, M.D.embroidered above the left breast pocket. His stark white hair is perfectly styled with a small swoop over his forehead, a white mustache rests atop his upperlip, and I swear his striking blue eyes pierce through my soul. He reminds me of Dick Van Dyke inDiagnosis: Murder.
“Glad to see you’re still with us. How are we feeling?” Doctor Sanders swoops down with his stethoscope, placing the cool metal against my chest. He moves it around my chest and then my back, and instinctively I take a few deep breaths. “You sound great,” he says, straightening himself and wrapping the listening device around the back of his neck.
I take another sip of water, and the liquid soothes the rawness of my throat. “W-what happened?”
“Well.” Doctor Sanders sighs and pulls the stool up next to the bed. He crosses one foot over his knee and leans back against the thin air. “I was kind of hoping you could tell me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ol’ Bill Wyatt, his boy, and Mr. Blackwood found you wandering out in the woods ’bout two days ago. You were in pretty bad shape, son. Two bruised ribs, a sprained ankle, and a pretty bad hit to the ol’ noggin. Looked like you’d been out there a while; you were severely dehydrated and chilled to the bone. Honestly, don’t know how you were still up and movin’ when they found you.”
“I don’t—I don’t remember anything.”
Doctor Sanders shares a look with Janet. I don’t like that look. He looks back at me, asking, “You remember your name?”
“It’s…It’s…”
Oh, come on. I know my own fucking name.
