“No, I’m . . .” My wrist brushing my forehead came away soaking wet. “I was . . .”

“Hold on a minute.” He took the berries to the work table by the stairway door, snatched up a tray, and came back. “You were . . . ?”

“Miles out to sea . . . I think.”

“Ah. Another memory quake?”

I shook my head. “I couldn’t quite . . . someone was shooting . . . I think.”

“Memory can be unreliable.”

“I didn’t say I imagined it. It just wasn’t clear what was happening.” I turned back to the berries and started filling another pint.

“Let me help.” Daniel took up a box and went to work beside me.

For a long time, we said nothing. I was glad he didn’t press for details I didn’t have. I did need to talk this out, and with Rubio sunk in his own obsession and everyone else saying how cool I remembered anything at all . . . well, why not Daniel?

“The thing is . . .” I set a full pint aside. “They’re coming at me—the memories— so often now, and so real that sometimes I . . . like, lose track of where I am. Or who I am.”

“Let me reassure you.” Daniel set his pint beside mine in the tray. “You are who you always were. Lizzy. You’ve just added to her, a new dimension. A bit of glimmer.”

“Cute.” I was unconvinced.

He took up an empty box. “Can I call you Lizzy? Maybe that would help?”

“It doesn’t feel like my name yet, so I might not answer. I . . . haven’t told anyone else.”

“Thanks,” he said softly.

“No, it’s just that . . .” Didn’t want him getting ideas. “I mean, I will, but . . .”

“I know.” He shook his head. “No, wait, I don’t. Not at all. I’d be celebrating. Why aren’t you?”

“It’s too confusing. It’s like I’ve been lying about who I am.”

“No one will see it that way.” He shook his box to settle the berries and went back to work, avoiding the clingy thorns. “I thought about you . . . after. Most of the night, in fact—well, what was left of it. I thought about what it took to tell me what you did. To relive it again. Bad enough recalling it the first time. I wasn’t . . . very helpful.”

“I wasn’t looking for help.”

“Sometimes that’s when it’s needed most.”

And when it’s the hardest to ask for. “Maybe.”

For a while, he kept picking, a careful, mechanical distraction. Then he put his basket down and sat back on his heels. “Can I tell you a story? It’s my turn. Not like, my trauma is bigger than your trauma. More like, I’ve been there, and maybe we can help each other. Go below the safety line. Get some of that trust back.”