I’d made some excuse about having something in my eye because the thought of my father being such a good man, of whom I only had filaments of memories, made me choke up. I wanted to remember him, my mum, Ophelia and Maya, properly. I wanted to remember the place I grew up in, where I went to school. I wanted to remember Celine, Kate and Lily, even my history with Keenan so it all made sense.

Maya’s car keys hung on the fish-shaped hook in the kitchen, so I grabbed them, pressing the set into my palm. I hoped driving was part of what Dr. Soares had referred to as my semantic memory and I wouldn’t end up in a ditch. Now was the time to find out.

As I reached the front door, I doubled back to the kitchen. I took a couple of twenties from Maya’s wallet, wrote an I Owe You note and popped it inside before deciding to scribble another message to leave on the table in case Maya woke up to find the house empty.

Gone out for a drive. Back soon. Don’t worry.

Not quite satisfied, I underlined the last two words three times and added four exclamation marks to convey the message properly.

The air outside was cool with a hint of a salty breeze, and I hurried to the car, glancing over my shoulder as if I were a teenager whose parents might bust me as soon as I turned on the engine. I headed out of the driveway, enjoying the sudden sense of control, the certainty I knew what I was doing and the freedom that came with it. I accelerated up the street and glanced at Keenan’s house, where the lights were off, and no car was parked outside. I kept going, taking my time as I got into town, looking around for nighttime clues or hints, places I’d been or people I knew—anything I might recall from the years I’d spent here. Still, nothing.

Maya had mentioned how Newdale’s population grew over the summer months, filled with campers, beachgoers and other tourists passing through. The balmy evening had kept the masses outside, many of the bars and restaurant terraces still at least half-full, the quiet din of late-night chatter filling the air.

I recognized the turnoff to Dr. Adler’s office. If it hadn’t been so late and he wasn’t on vacation, maybe I’d have considered stopping by for someone to talk to, although I knew he’d reiterate Dr. Soares’s statement about there being no magic pill. “Give yourself time to heal,” he’d say. “Be patient.” Fine, but how much bloody time and patience was I supposed to have?