Dr. Brocklebank stepped into the pen filled with older, bleating, romping kids, picked out a wobbly-legged baby and handed it to Elle. “Hold this little guy. He needs some love.”

Elle clutched the kid to her chest.

“Sit there.” He pointed at a long, narrow box filled with feed.

She sank down and smiled tremulously at the baby nudging her face.

“Probably ought to feed that guy.” The vet reached into a small refrigerator, found a full plastic bottle, warmed it in a microwave, topped it with a goat-sized nipple and handed it to Elle.

The kid didn’t have to be persuaded. It latched onto the nipple and sucked and wiggled with delight, and Adam could see Elle’s anxiety dissipate under the onslaught of baby-goat cuteness.

“Adam, do you want to feed one?” Brocklebank asked.

“No, I’ve had experience with goats and I...don’t need more.”

“A baby goat’s not going to hurt you.”

“Make no mistake, everything in this world has the capacity to hurt you.”

“Right. When you care, that’s true.” The doctor examined the pregnant goats, looked over the kids and, when the bottle was empty, he came back and took it out of Elle’s hand.

The kid had subsided into her lap, asleep with a full belly. For the first time since Adam had pulled her from the ocean, Elle was fully relaxed.

Brocklebank stepped back to stand with Adam. “Those are quite the marks on her neck. Fingerprint bruises.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Don’t know. Found her on the beach yesterday. I brought her to you because she doesn’t remember her name, what happened to her, where she came from—comes from.”

“Temporary amnesia. Sure, trauma. Makes sense.”

Adam tried to find the right words, but that wasn’t possible. “She had hypothermia. She died of hypothermia. Or she drowned. But she was dead.”

“Died.” Brocklebank slashed a look at Adam, then at Elle. “A strong word for someone who is holding a goat and cooing.”

“I know how to take a pulse. She was facedown. I flipped her back on the sand—”

“Thumped her heart.”

“No. She was cold and white. Dead. I threw her over my shoulder and knocked the seawater out of her, and she returned to life.”

Brocklebank choked out a laugh. “Gothic, City of Lost Souls. Makes you believe, doesn’t it?”

“No.” Adam was firm. “But that death, that loss of oxygen, explains why she doesn’t remember who she is. Nothing more than her first name, and she insists there’s more to it than just Elle.”

“She’s got a hell of a bump on her forehead. I can’t treat that. I can’t treat her.” Urgently, Brocklebank said, “She needs to see a doctor. A family physician. Someone with a diploma to treat, you know, humans.”