A few of my friends have texted asking if I’m still going to the vigil.

I don’t write back right away. I wait.

And think.

Maybe it’s wrong to go. What do I hope to accomplish there? More gawking? More comments? Wouldn’t it be better to stay at home and fly under the radar?

But what about the video making me look guilty? Won’t staying away make me look more guilty?

What’s right?

I text back: Yeah, I guess so. Maybe. I’m not sure.

Cameron responds first: Text me or Hector when you get there.

Then five minutes later,

Chad writes: Cool. See you there.

So then—I guess I’m going.

I pick up a book, one of Mom’s favorites. It’s a story collection by Ted Chiang that I started before the dance, before the accident, and I haven’t tried to read any of it since. I was in the middle of a story called “Division by Zero,” but I don’t remember the characters or the setting, so I flip back, trying to find something familiar, going almost to the beginning until things start to make sense, which only reminds me of the blind spots about the accident and the dance.

The back of my neck prickles with cold. The book shakes in my hand.

The doctors promised things would come back, but how do they know? And that scares the shit out of me. Big-time. It makes my insides turn to Jell-O and shake. It’s like a horror movie where the main character’s own brain turns against him and he can’t stop it. I spiral, wondering if all my other memories will start to disappear. Not just things relating to the night of the accident but everything else—Chloe, Mom, my friends, my childhood…

Is that why Chloe was missing from my dreams today?

What if the time comes when I can’t remember her at all?

My eyes squint shut as I conjure that day at the lake just to prove I can do it, just to make sure she remains three-dimensional in my mind. Chloe’s hair blows around her shoulders, and a spray of freckles dots her nose. Her eyes are blue but flecked with little spots of gold when the sun hits them. The water was freezing, but she waded in, turning over her shoulder and looking back at me, waving her hand, wanting me to join her.

“Are you a chicken?” she asked. “Are you afraid of a little cold?”

I wasn’t afraid. I watched her because she looked so amazing, her arms and legs muscular, her skin flawless.

She bent down, cupped some water in her hands, and threw it my way.

“Come on,” she said. “I need you to keep me warm.”