"You may experience various cognitive and emotional changes—memory deficits, mood lability, difficulties with concentration and executive function are common post-TBI symptoms. But let's not get ahead of ourselves. Now I know I just spewed a whole heap of medical jargon on you but things are good, you're doing extremely well all things considered. How are you feeling right now?"

Physically, it feels like I've been hit with a sledgehammer and then tossed into a cement mixer. And mentally…

"I'm confused," I murmur. "I'm tired." And terrified, I add silently.

"That's perfectly normal," he says with a gentle laugh. "You've endured significant trauma. If you're willing, I'd like to perform a brief cognitive assessment. Would that be okay?"

The anxiety churns in my stomach like a living thing, but I nod.

"Can you state your full name?"

"Lenora Kennedy Wells."

"And your mother's name?"

"Katherine Wells."

"Good. What's the last date you can recall?"

Panic floods my system.

Flashes of emerald green silk. Music. Dancing. The gala.

"July 27th. The Annual Eden Charity Fundraising Gala.”

He makes a note in my chart.

"Do you remember anything else from that night? Your intended destination?"

The space between then and now yawns like an abyss, dark and full of questions I'm not sure I want answered. I hesitate, drawing in a breath that feels like inhaling shattered glass. The memories of my fight with Jake surface first—harsh words echoing in my mind before I stormed away to my car.

"I remember driving on the M80." My voice wavers like a candle flame in wind.

"I was heading to a bar just outside of town to pick up a friend but then a car was swerving on the opposite side of the road and before I could⁠⁠—"

The words die in my throat as the memories crash over me like a tidal wave.

The headlights exploding in my vision like supernovas. The horrific symphony of metal screaming against metal, glass bursting around me like deadly rain. The impact that felt like the world itself had stopped spinning. Then the acrid cocktail of smoke and gasoline burning my nostrils, and a voice—that voice—calling my name, sending ice through my veins despite the heat of the wreckage.

"Your blood results showed no alcohol or drugs in your system."

I nod, fingers twisting in the scratchy hospital blanket until my knuckles turn white.

"Did you see the other driver?"

My eyes slam shut, heart hammering against broken ribs as the final pieces of that night crystallize in my mind.

The voices float back, clear as day:

"No. Fuck, it's you."

"Should we call an ambulance?"

"No. We need to go. Now."

“Do you know her?"

"Get in the car."

"We can't just leave her! She's still breathing."

"No," I whisper, the lie tasting like copper on my tongue. "I didn't see anyone."