He was beside me. His presence felt warm and reassuring. "It'll be alright," his voice whispered in the dark.

A feeling of contentment washed over me.

"I'm with you. I'll never leave you," he promised. He would stay with me forever.

I tried to conjure his name, but my brain felt sluggish.

His voice turned urgent. "You have to get out of here."

"I don't want to leave." Having him close made me feel safe.

"You must escape this place. You're in danger," he whispered.

"I don't understand." I felt him move away from me. "Don't go, stay with me."

"I'll always be with you," his voice echoed in the darkness, and then he disappeared.

* * *

This time when I woke, I was sitting in a chair next to a window. A blanket lay across my legs. I was in a wheelchair.

A voice spoke from behind me. "Finally, you're awake."

I tried to talk, but my throat was dry.

A woman stepped in front of me and handed me a glass of water. "Here you go. This will help."

I took a sip of water. The nurse from before was dressed all in white, but this woman wore a yellow blouse and a red-and-yellow-striped skirt that fell below her knees.

"You were distraught. They gave you something to calm you down. You were out for quite some time," she said.

"Do I know you?"

She reached out and patted my hand. "I'm Rachel. You don't remember me?"

I started to shake my head, but the pain came back—a hot, white flash that forced my eyes closed.

"They said your memory might be affected by the treatment."

I opened my eyes. "They did something to me."

She sat down in a chair close by. "That's right. There's nothing to be worried about. The whole thing is perfectly safe, though they did say that you might have some trouble with your memory. You might have headaches. Are you in pain now?"

If I answer yes, will they give me another shot or force pills down my throat? I made myself look calm and collected. "I'm fine. The pain is going away."

"Good. Good. I'm so happy to see you. It's been a while."

"I'm sorry I don't remember you. Have we known each other long?"

"Almost two months. I met you the first week you came here."

I've been in this place for a couple months?

"My son is one of the patients, and I visit him as much as I can." Rachel pointed toward a young man sitting in a chair a few feet away. His chair was the only one in the room not facing the windows. He had short, dark hair, sharp cheekbones, and a broad chin. He looked about my age and had the most incredible deep-blue eyes. It took me a moment to realize that, although he was looking in our direction, he didn't seem to be focusing on us. Instead, his blue eyes were directed above our heads. Even odder, there was absolutely no expression whatsoever on his face.

"Is he alright?" I asked.

She got up and walked over to him. She touched the top of his head. "He's fine. Aren't you, Dean?" She leaned down and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

Dean didn't react to her voice or her caress. He just had the same slack-jawed look on his face.

She saw me watching him. "He's been like this ever since... ever since the mishap during one of the rituals. They say there's nothing actually wrong that they can find, but he hasn't come back to us." She patted his cheek. "But I'm hopeful one day soon you'll come back to me, won't you, honey?" She looked over at me. "Would you like something to eat? You missed lunch, but I can ask the nurse for some pudding."

My stomach rumbled, and I realized I was hungry. "Yes. Thank you."

"I'll be right back. They said the shot may make you feel woozy for a while. Best to stay in the chair until you get your legs back under you." Rachel got up and left the room.

We were in a large space. White walls, white floor, white ceiling. We weren't the only ones here—about two dozen people mingled around. Some were in chairs like mine, others were walking around, and a few sat in small groups at white tables. There was a large glass partition with a nurse sitting behind it, and next to that was a set of tall metal doors.

A stocky man dressed in all white, his arms crossed in front of him, stood next to the doors. An orderly. Like the ones who'd held me down while the nurse gave me the sedative. I spotted three more scattered around the room, watching the patients as if waiting for someone to act up so that they could restrain and drug them like they had me.

I recalled that someone told me I needed to escape—that I was in danger. The dream I had when they medicated me. The whole thing was probably a by-product of the drugs acting on my subconscious.

A cold breeze slid across my hand. The hairs on the back of my neck rose. A voice whispered in my ear, "Help us."

I looked over at Dean. He hadn't said a word. His stare and expression hadn't changed.

"Help us." The voice sounded more urgent this time. As the words faded away, a magazine flew off a nearby chair and fell onto the floor.

Rachel now stood in front of me, holding a plastic cup of yellow pudding in one hand and a plastic spoon in the other. She gave me an odd look. "You suddenly look quite pale. I can call a nurse."

"Please don't," I begged her. I made myself meet her eyes, trying to push away the creeped-out feeling that was causing goosebumps to crawl across my skin. "I swear I'm fine." I didn't want to bring any more attention to myself in this place. I reached out for the pudding. "I'm just hungry."

She handed it to me. "It's banana. Your favorite flavor."

It was strange talking to someone who knew things about me when I had no clue who she was. I had no memory of this place, of this woman. I've been here for months? Where was I before that? Where's my family? Why can't I remember?

Luke.

The name came out of nowhere and slid across my mind. A feeling of deep sadness filled me. I tried to focus on the name, but a sudden pain shot through my temples. I raised my hand to my forehead.

"You're not okay. The nurse said that you could have some pills to help with the headache when you woke up. I'm going to ask them to get you something." Rachel didn't wait for me to respond. She got up and headed toward the nurse sitting behind the glass.

I decided I wasn't going to take any more pills. Not if I could help it. I'd had enough of this mental fogginess. I needed to remember, and the drugs I suspected they'd been pumping into me couldn't be helping.

I was so lost in my own thoughts that I didn't realize someone was standing in front of me, talking to me.

It was an old woman with long, white hair that hung down past her shoulders and looked like it hadn't been brushed in days. She wore a white-and-blue, polka-dotted sundress with stains splattered across the front.

Her smile was wide, but the look in her eyes was a bit unsettling. It was too intense. "It's you. Where have you been?"

"Do you know me?" I asked.

She gave me a tentative smile and moved closer. "You were here before." She looked over her shoulder and then back at me. "And then the other one came. I don't like her. She's not very nice. She tried to bite me once in the cafeteria."

"Uh..." I had no idea what she was talking about. She wasn't making any sense.

She stepped closer and poked at my shoulder. "You're Colina. You're not really supposed to be here. You're on a secret mission. I remember—you told me. You haven't been gone that long."

"A secret mission?"

The woman started fiddling with the collar of her dress. "You came here looking for someone, but I didn't tell anyone. I never did, you know. Even after you went away, I never did tell them about you."

"I don't understand." I was beginning to feel like Alice in Wonderland. What was going on? How did I have no memory of these people, of this place? Was this wild woman truly a friend of mine?

"When the other one came." She gave me a hard stare. "The other one...scares me." She leaned in and whispered, "Morgana."

As the words echoed in the air, I felt a tug somewhere deep inside. Like something deep within my belly was moving. There was no other way to explain it. It felt like something was trying to crawl out.

The woman pointed at Dean. "You came for him. In the daytime, he never says a word or cracks a smile. Not since he's been here...going on how long now?" She wasn't asking me the question—she was talking to herself. She started counting on her fingers, and once she went through all ten fingers, she started counting them a second time. "Thirteen months he's been here and not one smile, not one wink."

She bent down so her face was level with mine. "I still have it." She looked around the room and then reached into the pocket of her dress. She pulled out her hand and extended it toward me. A metal medallion lay in the middle of her palm. "I'm keeping it safe just like you asked. Our deal is still on, right? You won't back out on your word? You promised, and a promise is a promise."

"What deal?" I asked, reaching for the medallion.

Before I could touch it, she closed her palm and pulled her hand back. "You promised that when you leave here, you'll take me with you." A nurse walked by, and the old woman stopped talking. She waited until the nurse was out of earshot before she continued. "I don't know when you're planning on leaving, but you'd better make it soon. It happened again, you see." She reached out and poked my arm. "You're still alive and kicking. I told you I didn't think you were next."

She suddenly cocked her head to one side as though listening to something. Her body swayed back and forth like she was dancing to music. The only noise in the room was the low hum of far-off conversation.

The old woman suddenly stopped moving and focused on me again. "Sabrina—you remember the little redhead a few doors down from you? I don't know how the doctors think she could have done it. She was so slight, so small that if she turned sideways a hard wind would blow her off her feet." She cracked up at her own joke. "There wasn't an ounce of muscle in that girl's arms. How do they think she could have had the strength?"

She was talking about people I didn't know, saying things that didn't make sense. With a jolt, I realized she was waiting for me to respond.

I replayed the last thing she'd said to me and asked the first question that came to mind. "What do they think Sabrina did?"

"The fools think the girl hoisted her bed up against the wall. They think she climbed up, tied the bed sheets into a rope, slung the rope over the pipes in the ceiling, and hanged herself."

Her words shocked me, and I looked at her, horrified.

"But we both know it's not true. That they made it all up to cover up the murders. You told me you thought you were next, but see, you were wrong. You're still alive, and Sabrina is dead. They killed Sabrina, not you."

"Who killed Sabrina?" I whispered.

She leaned in and whispered back, "The orderlies. They're all in on it. If you're going to leave, you'd better make it soon. Sabrina died..." She stood up and counted her fingers again. This time she went through all ten fingers four times before answering. "Three weeks ago. It was the last day of the month. A new month—you know what that means. One dead every month. You were wrong thinking you would be next. But maybe this time, maybe this time, you'll be right. Maybe...just maybe...you'll be the one to die this month."

***