“Yes,” she said. Charlie closed her eyes. The room was different now. Safer. “You said something,” she murmured, almost to herself, and John leaned closer.

“Did I? What did I say?” He cleared his throat, his palms already sweating.

“You said … you loved me,” she whispered, and he jolted as if someone had struck him.

“Yes,” he said, his voice sounding choked-off. “That is what I said to you. You remember that?” Charlie nodded carefully, knowing her response was inadequate. He turned away from her for a second, letting out a forced breath. “It’s true. I do!” he said in a rush, turning back to her. “I mean, you’ve been my friend since forever. Just like Marla or Carlton or Jessica. I would have said that to any of them. Well, maybe not Jessica. So, you remember some of that night, then?” he asked briskly.

“It’s all I remember. And the door. John!” She grasped his arm, alarmed. “John, the door was opening, I think Sammy was inside—I could feel him there, his heartbeat …” She trailed off as another memory overwhelmed her, a moment in the strange, artificial cave under the restaurant that was so like Freddy’s, and yet so unlike it. “Springtrap,” she said. “I fought with him. There was a metal spike, and his head …” She could see him, gasping on the rocks as she ground the piece of metal torturously into his wound.

“I know; I saw it, too,” John said, an uncomfortable shift in his eyes.

“He said, ‘I didn’t take him. I took you.’”

“What?” John gave her a puzzled look, and she sighed in frustration.

“Sammy! I asked him why, why he took my brother from me, and that was what he said. ‘I took you.’”

“Well, you’re here now. He’s insane, anyway.” John attempted a smile. “He probably just said it to hurt you, to confuse you.”

“Well, it worked.” She let her head sink back onto the pillow. “John, everyone’s avoiding the question: How long has it been? I know it’s been more than days, but how bad is it? A month?”

He didn’t answer.

“Two months?” she ventured. “I know it can’t be more than a year or you’d have a nicer apartment,” she said weakly, and he winced. “John, tell me,” Charlie insisted, hearing her own voice rising, her heart beating faster as she waited for him to speak.

“Six months,” he said at last. She didn’t move. She could hear the blood rushing in her ears.

“Where have I been?” she asked, her voice barely audible over the rushing sound.

“Your aunt Jen, you were with her, at least I think that’s where you were.”

“You think?”