I took him to the kitchen, where I got us both some water. We sat at the table, where I watched him drink deeply, his fingers shaking as he set the glass down. When he turned to look at the pictures on the wall, I caught a glimpse of the side of his head.

“You’re hurt,” I said, leaning forward. “What happened?”

He moved back, out of reach. “I don’t know. It’s nothing. Just a cut.”

“Let me see.” I got up and gently pushed his hair to one side with my fingers, apologizing when he winced. “It looks nasty. We really need to get you to a doctor.” He shook his head. “Yes. It’s the weekend but...do you remember Dr. Golding?”

“I don’t remember anyone.”

“Crap. Of course.” I sat down again, making sure I gave him enough physical and mental space. “Well, anyway, he was our family doc but when he retired, Dr. Adler took over his practice. He—”

“I told you, I don’t want to see anyone.” Ash jumped up, his left hip hitting the table so hard, the glasses went flying, spinning across the wooden surface, leaving a trail of water in their wake. His expression made me think he was going to run out of the room and into the darkness of the night without looking back. I could see his frustration mounting, and it was my job to stay cool and be reassuring. I knew Ash, he had a temper sometimes.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” I said gently, trying to keep him calm, keep him here, and gestured for him to sit as I wiped the spills with a napkin. “We don’t have to decide now.”

He complied, sinking back into his seat. “I have decided. I’m not seeing a doctor. This is all too confusing. I don’t know who I am, or what’s happened. He’ll ask things I don’t know the answers to.”

“But maybe—”

“No. I can’t. Not yet. I need some time to...I don’t know, figure stuff out.” Ash was about to jump up again, I could see the signs: jaw clenched, heels pushed into the floor. I put my hand on his knee, his muscles tensing beneath my touch.

“All right,” I said. “No doctor. First, we’ll get you settled back here at home.”

“Home...” Shaking his head, he looked around. “Is my name really Asher Bennett?” When I nodded, he continued, “And I’m your stepbrother, and from England?”

“That’s right, from Portsmouth.”

“What do I do for a living?”

“You worked in construction. Carpentry, mainly. You have a knack for it.”

“And you?”

“Officially I waitress at a place called the Cliff’s Head. Unofficially I practically run the place. That’s what my boss, Patrick, says, anyway. I can’t wait to tell him you’re back.”