I open my eyes. A woman in a white coat is standing by my bed. ‘I’m Doctor Lyons.’ She lifts my left eyelid and shines a little torch into it, and then does the same with the other. ‘Good, good,’ she says. ‘Can you tell me your name?’

‘My name?’

She nods. ‘Yes.’

I stare at her blankly.

Only then does it occur to me that I don’t know my own name. ‘I, um, I’m not …’

She nods again. ‘OK. Try not to worry. Amnesia in these kinds of cases is almost always temporary.’

‘Amnesia?’

‘When you can’t remember things.’

‘I know what it means.’ My throat hurts. ‘Can I have some water, please?’

‘Yes, I think so.’ The doctor nods at the nurse, who scuttles off and returns almost instantly with a jug of water with a jaunty red lid and a plastic beaker. She pours water into the glass, puts a straw in and hands it to me. ‘Small sips at first,’ she warns. ‘You haven’t had anything by mouth for five days.’

The water is deliciously cool as it slips down my throat. I rub some on my lips, which feel dry and cracked.

‘Five days?’ I croak. ‘I’ve been here five days?’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ the doctor agrees.

‘What happened to me?’

She sits on the edge of my bed. ‘We think you were in an accident. Hit by a car. You were found lying in the road, having suffered some injuries.’ She inclines her head towards the bandage on my arm. ‘A badly scraped arm, cracked ribs, some cuts and bruises, and it’s quite possible you’ve suffered a concussion which can also cause memory loss.’ She pats my leg. ‘But memory almost always comes back with time. We’ve examined you thoroughly and there is no sign of serious head injury.’

‘And Dad? Does he know I’m here?’

The doctor frowns. ‘I’m afraid we haven’t yet worked out who you are. You had no ID on you when you were brought in, no phone, no belongings, nothing. We were hoping you might be able to tell us who you belong to, if and when you woke up. If you can let me know who your dad is, I can make sure he’s contacted as a matter of urgency.’

I close my eyes and try to picture something. But nothing comes to me, apart from Dad. ‘I can remember what he looks like. But, uh, I can’t remember my name. Or his. I don’t know how you would contact him.’ I feel scared and embarrassed and tears come to my eyes. What kind of person can’t remember their own name?