It wasn’t a good enough explanation for Mom (or for me). But what could we do?

Our apartment is small—two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a cramped open-plan living room and kitchen—but it’s home. Even the view out over the city is comforting, gray as it is outside. I see that our little plastic Christmas tree has come out of the cupboard—although it’s not decorated yet. I bet Mom has been waiting for me.

We walk into the kitchen, and Mom fills the kettle and puts it on the stove to boil. We don’t speak until there are two mugs of steaming hot cocoa in front of us, and we’re both perched on our favorite stools by the counter.

“How are you feeling?” Mom asks.

“Better,” I say, with a shrug. “A bit weak.”

She nods, then lets out a long sigh. “The doctor said you might—but that you’ll feel stronger soon. He reminded me you weren’t in a normal coma—there was no permanent brain damage or lasting side effects, other than the memory loss. And hopefully that will come back too. I’m just glad to have you home.”

“Me too,” I say.

“Do you feel up for talking?” she asks. Mom has her serious face on, the one I don’t see very often, because, since it’s only the two of us, she is nicer to me than I deserve. She lets me spend all night in my basement locker, tinkering away. She indulges my hobbies. She lets me attend the school of my dreams, even though it must bring up terrible memories for her about my dad, who left us when I was five.

And how do I repay her?

By being dishonest and not turning to her for help when I needed it, at the first sign of trouble. Then I get into so much trouble, I end up in the hospital for a month.

How can I explain all this to her?

I answer her question with a small nod.

“Honey, you have to tell me everything that has happened,” she says, her tone soft but firm.

I open my mouth, but I have no idea how to begin. Plus, there’s something giant hanging over my head. I don’t know how much I can tell her.

I pick at a loose string on the edge of my sleeve. “When I started at Profectus, they made us sign an agreement that said we couldn’t discuss what happens at school with anyone outside it.”

Mom tuts at me but follows it with a wry smile. “So, did you actually read that document before you signed it?”

That’s not what I expected her to say. The only sound out of my mouth is an unintelligible “Uhhh…”