Me: Not nearly as good as yours but still not bad.

Smith: I can feel that marathon energy from here. You know, it’s not too late to fly over.

Me: Don’t tempt me.

Smith: Go book a flight for the morning. You’ll get the best of both worlds.

Me: You might be onto something. Let me see what I can do.

As I worked my way through the congestion, I considered Smith’s idea. If I left tomorrow, I’d only lose a few days of the two-week trip we had planned. My assistant expected me to be gone and was now in the process of filling my schedule. I needed to put a stop to that before she got too far.

I pressed several buttons and held the phone to my ear, listening to my assistant say, “Good afternoon, Mr. Hunt.”

“Betsy, can you book me on the earliest flight to Dubai for tomorrow and clear my schedule?” I maneuvered my way toward the edge of the sidewalk to get the best view of the finish line, which was less than fifteen yards away.

“Of course, Mr. Hunt. Is there anything else you need?”

I was so close to the metal barriers that blocked off the street; I could feel the wind from the runners as they passed. The cheering and celebration around me, the international flags waving high in the air, created an energy, like Smith had mentioned in his text. The only time I’d ever felt something similar was when I went skydiving or parasailing.

An adrenaline I could even feel in my fingertips.

“No, Betsy, that will be all—”

My voice cut off when the loudest sound I’d ever heard exploded through my ears. A searing pain shot through my body, silence immediately following before everything turned black.

Two

“Can you tell me your name?” someone said in my ear, the voice like a blanket when I couldn’t stop shivering.

My eyes opened a crack, white flashing like a reel of film over my head.

I blinked.

Waited.

And blinked again.

“I’m Whitney,” the same voice said. “I’m going to do everything I can to help you, but you have to tell me your name.”

My name?

I held my lids open like I was putting in contacts. The white squares were gone, and in their place were the darkest eyes, the color of the afghan my mother had wrapped me in whenever I got sick as a kid.

Afghan brown.

There was more movement, the white squares now above the blanket’s head, words being shouted from both sides of me that weren’t in her voice.

I tried to lift my head, and the pain immediately hit me. A gnawing so severe, a scream came directly from my gut.

“Please listen to me,” the blanket said, silencing me. “I need you to stay still and tell me your name.”