The sun had started its descent when I woke up again, and as we drove over a bridge, I noticed a green-and-white sign announcing our arrival in Maine. I expected a rush of excitement, a massive influx of memories. Instead, a sinking sensation pulled at the pit of my stomach. What would I do now? Where would I go once I got out of the trailer? Coming to Maine had been a stupid, rash decision. Somebody in Maryland had to know me. Someone had to be wondering where I was. What had I been thinking? I spent the next hour trying to come up with a plan but failed, because, as it turned out, without a memory or history, there weren’t many avenues to explore.

When the trailer slowed down again a while later, I decided it was time for me to go. I grabbed a black rain jacket and a blue baseball hat from the wardrobe, hoping Sal and Rita would blame one another for leaving them behind, and pushed the back window open. Even before we’d come to a complete stop I slid out, my legs buckling as they hit the ground.

I took in my surroundings. The trailer had pulled into a small plaza with an Irving Oil, a convenience store and a couple of fast-food places. I put on the jacket and hat, and headed away from the plaza, ducking my head. As I shoved my hands into the coat’s pockets, my fingers closed over a piece of paper, which turned out to be a twenty-dollar bill. I whispered a thank-you to the rain-cloud-filled skies, and hid behind a couple of parked cars, watching Sal fill up his car as Rita periodically shouted at him to hurry the hell up. When they finally drove away I waited another few minutes in case they returned, and when I decided it was safe, went to the store.

The brass bell above my head jangled as I entered. The guy behind the counter threw an uninspired glance my way before returning to the phone in his hand. I headed for the fridge, grabbed the biggest bottle of water I could find and picked up pretzels and chocolate. I ran my tongue over the fuzziness of my gums, for the first time realizing how rancid my breath must be. How long since I’d brushed my teeth? What brand of toothpaste did I use? Mundane questions, perhaps, but, damn it, I wanted the answers.

“What am I going to do?” I muttered as I walked up the aisle, adding a small toothbrush kit to my supplies, hoping the twenty dollars would cover it all. I set the items on the counter, and after the cashier handed over five bucks in change, I asked for the key to the bathroom.

He passed me a grubby tennis ball with a single key attached to it and pointed outside. “Around the back. Close the door when you’re done.”