The room was dimly lit, and the television mounted on the wall was muted. Marisa was lying in her bed, her eyes closed. Her head was wrapped in a large bandage, and I could see the surgeon had cut her hair on the right side of her head. Long hair on the left and shorn on the right, the lopsidedness was almost comical.

Machines beeped as I set my linens down and walked to the bed. Her face looked pale, drawn, and without her expressive eyes staring back at me, rather plain.

“Marisa,” I said softly.

Her chest rose and fell in a steady, even pattern. She was going to live. That much I could see for myself, but what would she remember?

I took her hand in mine as I’d done so many years ago. It was cold, limp. I squeezed it gently at first, but when she didn’t respond, I tightened my grip, knowing I was crushing her knuckles against each other. Finally, her forehead furrowed. Relief surged. Knowing I was hurting her didn’t bother me. She was alive through no fault of her own. She’d been a naughty girl who had put me through a lot of worry during the last twenty-four hours. It seemed only fair she got a little back.

I leaned closer to the bed until my lips brushed her ear. “Marisa, wake up. I need to know you’re in there, Marisa.”

She didn’t react until I folded her wrist back on itself. A self-defense move I’d learned years ago when it had been done to me a few times, and it hurt like hell. No different from what a doctor did with the pins and needles they stuck in a patient.

The frown deepened, the heart rate monitor sped up, and then her eyes fluttered open. I eased off the pressure, knowing a real spike in her heart rate would summon a nurse.

At first her gaze was vacant, and I assumed that she was swimming up toward consciousness. “Marisa, can you see me?”

Her head shifted toward me and those eyes focused. She stared into my face a long moment. I tensed, fearing she’d scream or call for help. But there was no flicker of recognition.

“Can you see me?” I asked.

She nodded.

No sign of panic or worry. No ugly realization that I was not the man she’d once thought I was. I was glad of that. It had been crushing to see the horror and anger in those eyes. I wanted back the dewy, hazy eyes I’d looked into so many years ago as I’d come inside her when she was someone else.

“Can you move your fingers?” I asked.

Fingers painted with chipped red nail polish wiggled.

“That’s good.”

“Where am I?” she whispered.

“You were in a car accident,” I said. “But you’re all right now. You’re going to be fine.”