My eyes blinked open. Momentarily, I thought I was still in the nighttime room of the cabin, with Henry, but I quickly realized that this was daylight, not lamplight, and I felt before I saw that Henry was long gone. The dull ache, the uncomfortable void in my chest--he was farther away than I could know, and a deep misery filled me. I was lying on the floor and tried to rise, but I quickly found that I wasn't going to be able to; Jason was lying across my legs--

Jason! He'd been shot!

I struggled to pull my legs out from under him, then rolled him over. He groaned in pain, and that restored my hope. Crouching over him, pushing aside my own lightheadedness, I looked at the front of him, and I caught sight of a dark spot of dried blood along his left side. My legs were bloodied from his wound as well, and I wondered if the pressure of his heavy body being pressed against me had stopped the bleeding enough to save him.

Jason's eyes opened, and I recognized real suffering in their depths, so I was surprised when he asked me whether I was all right.

I gave him only a perplexed stare.

"The whole side of your face . . . there's blood," he told me.

No wonder I was feeling dizzy. It was my temple, still. I wondered briefly whether there'd been some sort of anticoagulant, something to keep the wound from closing up too quickly, in whatever they'd put in my brain. It struck me that I'd just lived through one long, entire, solid memory—the memory of that night and what'd happened after it. I'd recalled every detail, and it was still fresh in my mind, unlike a fading dream. I knew it would be there for as long as my mind was left to itself, now.

"Are you all right?" I asked Jason, my throat sore for reasons unbeknownst to me.

"Oh yeah, sure," he grumbled tortuously. "I've only been shot . . . my entire torso is on fire."

Despite the grave situation, I knew he'd be all right. His sarcasm was proof enough. And I thought, hopefully, that maybe the bullet had grazed his side, maybe not actually entered his body. But we needed help. I had to let go of my aversion to people and police and get him medical attention. "You're going to have to stay here while I look for help."

"Help?" He sounded skeptical, but he slowly, painstakingly attempted to prop himself up on a pillow I placed on the ground, and I stood up cautiously, supporting myself against whatever was nearby when lightheadedness threatened.

"Don't move--I don't want you to bleed anymore. There's got to be a phone somewhere."

"Like I could move," Jason managed.

When the vertigo cleared from my eyes, I went to the kitchen and tried to locate a landline or some means of communicating with the outside world, but then I realized how unlikely it was I'd find any. The Circuit wouldn't want anyone to be able to find this place; of course they wouldn't connect a phone. But what could I do? Jason was in no shape to walk again, and I wasn't sure I could do anything to help his wound. Nevertheless, I began to search the house for first aid items, calling to Jason and eliciting a response every so often to make sure he was all right, and in the midst of that search, I found myself in one of the rooms off the landing. Pausing, I recognized an eerie sensation that this was where they'd brought me--in my memory--where they'd opened up the floor and taken me to some room below. But as I contemplated trying to find the hidden trap door, wondering whether, even if I did find it, I'd be able to descend and face whatever was down there, a terrible sound reached my ears. I was sure--and yet it couldn't be--that it was the whirring of a fan blade! Nearer, nearer it came . . . that continuous whooshing, until it was so loud I was sure the floor would cave in and I'd fall--I clapped my hands to my ears, felt the dizziness returning--

But then an even-louder clattering and commotion burst from the main room: something like a door or a window crashing, many shouting voices . . . someone calling my name.

I turned and rushed back to Jason, not so much concerned for him as hopeful that someone had brought Henry back to me, and although my hopes weren't realized, I did see with great relief that Miss Pinsky-Waters had arrived with police officers and what appeared to be medical personnel. The medical people attended immediately to Jason, and Miss Pinsky-Waters, spotting me at the doorway to the room, practically fell over furniture to get to me.

"Oh, Nadia! Thank God! We were so worried--you just ran off! We've been searching all night!" She threw her arms around me, and I supposed I should hug her back, which I did (although a little awkwardly). "There's Detective Arnold, Galen Arnold, over there; I've been working with him. He'll want to know everything about what happened." She waved toward a tall, kindly looking middle-aged black man, who smiled and gave me a brief wave before turning back to speak to the two or three police officers there.

"I thought you didn't trust the police," I whispered to Miss Pinsky-Waters, hoping that everything was all right.

"We can't trust all of them," she replied. "But fear not--these ones are on our side!"

Keeping her arm around me, she led me to the sofa and instructed me to sit down and rest, that they'd take care of everything from here. So I listened to her, not having anywhere else to go, anyway, now that I hadn't a clue where Henry had gone.

Later, before we were airlifted out of the cabin (it was how they'd arrived, too--by helicopter; that cabin was entirely inaccessible), I asked Miss Pinsky-Waters to look in the bedroom with the trap door, verify it was there because I was sure it was but didn't want to go back in there. When she returned, she told me that there was indeed a secret panel cut in the floorboards, and it led to a sort of concrete cellar. But there was nothing down there, she said. Nothing but an old fan and a lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. The terror of that place would always be inside me, and I was grateful that Miss Pinsky-Waters didn't question me about it right then; I wasn't sure I wanted to explain what had happened to me, wasn't even really sure I could.

Jason and I were taken to the nearest hospital, where I was bandaged and he had surgery to sew up where the bullet had grazed him, and we ended up on IV's in hospital bedrooms, because we were both pretty dehydrated. I didn't have any more memories during my stay in the hospital, but I felt as if I relived Mr. Hines's death each time I fell asleep. After several nightmares of Henry's brutal beating, I began to wish I hadn't remembered any of it at all.

Miss Pinsky-Waters and Detective Arnold spoke with me and Jason a few times. I told them everything I knew, and they were grateful for my information. I could tell that they cared about me, and I was happy that, at least for a little while, I could just rest and feel somewhat safe.

So much was still unanswered. Why had Mr. Hines been killed? That question no doubt bothered Jason and his family more than it bothered me, but I was plagued with far more confusion than they were. There were many large questions—most pressing what had become of Henry—but there were smaller questions as well, like what had become of Mac. He'd just disappeared the night I shoved him out of the pipe. Maybe he had drowned there, maybe he hadn't, but if he had, his body had been removed, because even though I told the authorities about it, they didn't seem to find him. After a short while, though, I decided I didn't want to know what had happened to him, regardless of the outcome. I didn't understand why he'd turned on me, other than that he had to have been working for the Circuit, but I couldn't make much sense out of that line of reasoning: why hadn't he just killed me, if they'd wanted me out of the way? Why follow along with me all that time when he could've easily found some way to get rid of me? Had he turned bad along the way, or was he bad from the start? I didn't know, but it didn't really matter anymore. He'd disappeared, along with the Circuit itself: after I told Miss Pinsky-Waters and Detective Arnold about the abandoned warehouse and the tunnel leading down into the massive maze of hallways underground, they went to find it, and according to them, they did manage to locate the place. However, they were unable to go down into the tunnel, because it had been filled up with cement. Much later, they told me they'd led a team to excavate the place—tore up half the ground there—and found the existence of halls and rooms, only they'd all been imploded or filled with cement as well.

So the Circuit had cleared out, but I seriously doubted that it was for good. Would they be back in San Judo? That, I didn't know, but I remembered that red-haired woman talking about other cities, other places where they ran their operations. I had a feeling that San Judo was one of many--maybe hundreds of places that the Circuit was working. I didn't doubt, now, that they'd be furious with me. I'd led everyone to them, exposed them, and brought to light the reality of a murder they'd try to cover up. No doubt if they found me, they'd exact vengeance. I hadn't any idea how they'd closed up and cleaned out so quickly, but they surely had access to many resources, not least of which were all the people on the outside--like treacherous police--working with them. And what might they have done with all the recruits? Wiped their minds and put them back out on the streets? That seemed unlikely--a dangerous liability. A far darker possibility was that they just killed all of them and buried them within the cemented tunnels. But I didn't want to think of that, of Bodie and Pilar and the other girls in my room encased in concrete. They wouldn't have done it to Henry. I was certain of that. Maybe I was being too sure of myself, but I couldn't help feeling that, somehow, Henry was definitely still alive.

Henry.

It was hard to believe it hadn't even been two weeks since we'd sent notes to one another in Oliphant. So much had happened in such a short amount of time, and I'd been with him only a part of it. And yet, I felt as if I'd known Henry much longer. My own memories had revealed that to me, had confirmed the sense I'd had when we'd first met, in the basement of Oliphant. We were meant to be with one another in some way, whatever that was, and I was going to keep my promise to him: I wouldn't forget. Whatever it took, I'd find him. I had no idea how, but I had to remain a little optimistic; I wasn't sure I had any future if Henry wasn't in it.

What had happened that last night, anyway? Henry had been told to kill Jason . . . why? To get rid of evidence? That sounded believable. They'd brought Henry there to make sure he did it, probably, just as they'd hovered when Henry had been sent to kill Mr. Hines. And Henry hadn't wanted to--I knew he hadn't wanted to. I'd managed to sway him, and even when he'd shot Jason, it'd probably been because Jason had jumped at him. But why hadn't the Circuit cleaned this up, as they'd taken care of Mr. Hines? Why were Jason and I alive?

Questions bred only more questions and fruitless guesswork--never answers.

The long, dull stay in the hospital—a week, almost—was broken up with pleasant interrogations from Miss Pinsky-Waters and Detective Arnold (they both struck me as rather scatterbrained, but they were very kind); one or two conversations with Jason about what had gone on and what was going to happen to him now that all my information about the shooting was out; and visits from Mel and Ella. When I saw Mrs. Hines, the wife of the dead man, I was startled by her appearance. She was an elegant woman, but she was thin to the point of looking sickly, and for as well-dressed as she was, all her jewelry couldn't hide her nervous affect. She seemed to be waiting for someone to pounce on her at any moment. When I first met her, she'd come to see her son and after visiting him stopped in to thank me. But the whole time she was in my room, she cast glances in all the corners and behind herself, over and over. I was relieved when she left; her gestures were starting to make me wonder whether I should be afraid as well.

Even Jason was difficult to talk to. He himself was all right, not particularly friendly, always a little distant, sometimes a bit too sarcastic but otherwise not horrible; he seemed to want to talk about some of the things we'd been through. It was me, though. I had a hard time wanting to talk to him. I couldn't shake the memory of what he'd done to Henry in his blind rage, how he'd nearly killed him—the images seemed to play in Jason's dark eyes whenever I looked into them. Even more frustrating was that I couldn't necessarily blame Jason for what he'd done; I understood that he'd thought Henry had killed his father, and his pain must've been unbearable. But the sheer violence of his actions . . . Had it been toward anyone else, maybe I could've forgiven him easier. But it was Henry. There was no forgiving.

I couldn't talk about Henry with Jason, even though he tried to pry a little. I couldn't talk about Henry with the Hines sisters, either. I never told them about what Jason had done, what I'd seen. I felt it would've somehow dishonored Henry. My memories of him were mine; I didn't want to share him. And I also didn't want to tarnish the image Mel and Ella had of their brother. They acted as if Jason were a saint, showering attention on him, treating him like some wounded hero who'd been inexcusably wronged. If they'd asked me what I thought, and if I'd told them the truth, I would've said Jason had been properly placed at Oliphant, after what he'd done, what he was obviously capable of.

Ella and Mel didn't deserve to hear that from me, though. They were by my side as often as they were at their brother's, and they behaved toward me as well if not better than they behaved toward Jason. Unlike their mother, they were wide open with their emotions, and the amount of tears and gleeful shrieks that were shared (zero of which came from me) did do something to lift my spirits and help ease my troubled thoughts for as long as they were with me.

More than anything, they were excited to see Jason exonerated. It was totally obvious, now that I remembered what I'd seen, that he hadn't shot his father. Miss Pinsky-Waters and Detective Arnold assured me that my evidence would clear his name. Whether his case would go to retrial, whether I'd have to testify, neither they nor I knew, yet, but surely Jason would be freed from all blame. I prayed I wouldn't have to get up in front of a courtroom and say anything. There were so many questions I wouldn't be able to answer, and I didn't want to talk about all the things that had happened. I knew so little about my world that what little I did know felt like an unshareable secret. Why should anyone else hear my story when I didn't have an understanding of it, myself? The thought of being forced to testify weighed on me heavily those few days in the hospital, but what actually ended up happening couldn't have been better--once Mrs. Hines called in the lawyers, they did enough to free Jason without me having to do anything at all. There wouldn't even be a re-trial.

Those days, lying in that hospital bed, putting on a happy face when Mel and Ella and Miss Pinsky-Waters and Detective Arnold came to visit me, I thought little of what actually mattered (namely, the fact that I was literally homeless and had nowhere to go after I left the hospital) and largely about Henry. I wondered every moment of every hour what was happening to him, whether he was being hurt or was thinking about me, whether we'd find each other again and what had happened in those moments before Jason had turned on the lights in that cabin. I wondered, too, what would've happened between us if Jason hadn't turned on the light, if we'd run instead of found the Circuit, if we'd stayed forever in that field where he'd placed those blue flowers in my hand, electricity passing between our fingers. But those were all dead-end thoughts, and they made me very unhappy.

Detective Arnold had photos taken of me and said he was going to send them out, to see if I matched any missing persons cases across the country. I couldn't be finger-printed, and there was very little anyone could do to identify me, but I know that he tried. But no one claimed me, and as the days crept by, I became increasingly certain no one would. In the eyes of the world, I remained no one, and I had no home. It didn't hit me, truly, until the day Jason was packed up to go home. Mrs. Hines waited in the lobby while Ella and Mel went into his room, next door to mine. I could hear their excitement; they were practically bubbling over

"We'll be a family again," I heard Ella cry.

"I put all your pictures back up, and I cleaned your room for you," Mel added. They were certainly loud enough, those two.

Jason must have said something in response, but he was much quieter, so I couldn't hear him, but the girls burst out laughing.

I sat in my room, in a chair, not sure where I was going to end up--probably some foster home, although I knew I'd run from it the moment I could. For the first time since I'd met the Hineses, I envied them. They were a family; they had each other. They knew not just a house but a home was waiting for them beyond this hospital, and they knew that they'd all been given another chance. I wished I could feel such certainty.

About to get up and shut my door so I couldn't hear them anymore, I was surprised when Mel popped her head into my room before I even crossed the floor.

"You ready, Nadia?" she grinned.

I just stared at her, wondering what she meant--could she really be asking me whether I was ready to be all alone?

Mel gave an indignant gasp. "Didn't he tell you?"

"Didn't who tell me what?"

"Jason!" she said. She tipped her head, and her blonde hair swished sideways. "Of course he didn't. He's shyer than you think!" She popped in and bounced over to me, smiling to the point of annoyance. I just sat there, didn't even know what was happening, but she grabbed both my hands and pulled me up. "You're coming home with us! You're staying with us until they can find your family!"

My mouth fell open. "Are you serious?" I asked incredulously.

Mel laughed. "Of course I'm serious! Get your stuff, and hurry up! We're stopping for lunch on the way home, and I'm starved!"

I could hardly believe it, but they repeated themselves enough to convince me it was real, so I got up and went into the bathroom to gather the few things I had: a toothbrush, some hair and bath products, a get well card from Miss Pinsky-Waters . . . only the things I'd been given the past few days. In a way, I was distressed to return to the Hineses' house, not least because it would always remind me of Slim's body, of Henry's choice, but also because it would be that much more difficult to leave. I could easily slip out of a foster home, set off to try to find Henry, when I held no love for whoever I was with. But the Hineses--Mel and Ella, at least--had been kind, and there was something like a friendship between us; it wouldn't be easy to just walk out on them. Still, it'd be nice to feel as if I had a home, even if it were temporary.

Ready to go, I passed a large mirror on the way out, paused for a moment to look at myself. My smooth skin, my crystal-clear eyes--so much like Henry's, "amazing," as Bodie had said, though whether I agreed I didn't know. I recalled, some while back, hating my reflection, feeling as if I didn't know who she was. I couldn't say I knew or loved her now, but I did know one thing: she had a name. I had a name:

Amirah.

Amirah was my name.

THE END