Despite the fact that there are about a million burning questions on the tip of my tongue, I shake my head, and we all stand, heading for the door. I wander farther down the hall, drifting and ghostlike, while Sofia gets a final word in with Dr. Meyer, speaking in hushed timbres. Audrey stands next to them, shooting me concerned glances every few seconds.

Our physical resemblance reassures me that they truly are my family—we have the same intense brown eyes, dark hair, and tawny skin—but I have no recollection of our life before these hospital corridors and neurology appointments. I don’t even know what they think of me.

After several moments of watching the rain fall outside the large windows of the hospital entrance, they join me, and we make our way outside.

A raindrop hits my nose, and Sofia does her best to cover us using her bag as a makeshift umbrella, but it doesn’t provide much shelter. My hair is damp by the time we reach the car. As we roll through town, my eyes melt into the landscape of cookie-cutter houses backed by lush mountains and my fingers curl around the strap of my seat belt as I listen to the whir of tires gliding through rainwater. The sun hasn’t shone in Pender Falls since I woke up.

Sofia tells me I’ve lived here all my life. Years of bouncing around British Columbia led her to settle down in a small town in the Interior, somewhere she deemed appropriate to raise a family.

“That’s your elementary school,” she says as we drive by a blue building with children’s artwork pasted to the windows, rain battering the weathered jungle gym.

It continues on like this as she points out the shadowy park I used to frequent as a child and the church next to the cemetery we attend on special occasions. Audrey fills in the gaps from the backseat, accompanying every place with an amusing story. With each one we drive past, it feels like I’m seeing it for the first time. I have no doubt their intention is to help me become familiar with my surroundings, but it only makes me feel like more of an outsider.

After turning onto Seymour Avenue, we pull into the driveway of a house a little ways down the street. It’s large, built of red bricks, with sprawling vines creeping up the front and wrapping around the white pillars on the porch like something out of a storybook. Sofia kills the engine and nobody moves for a second.

“This is home,” she announces tentatively.