The hospital monitors beeped and clicked with activity. It was the first thing she heard. Her eyes tensed under the soft light coming through the blinds, and she eased them open centimeter by centimeter until her vision became clearer.

He was the first thing she saw. He was silently staring back at her, standing with his legs firmly planted apart and his arms closed over themselves. A suede jacket draped over his crossed arms. It was all wrong. The pleated khakis he wore with a white collared shirt peeking out of his wool argyle sweater stood out against his hard stance. It didn’t belong together, and that was her second clue something was off. Not that she was skipping over anything, but she couldn’t even begin to wrap her mind around her first clue. Her first fucking clue that things weren’t right was the gaping hole in her memory. She couldn’t remember a goddamn thing. Not one fucking thing about why she was lying in a hospital bed with tubes coming out of her nose, mouth, and arms.

She brought her attention back to the man in front of her, starting with his hair. Dark brown--almost black, she noted--closely buzzed on the sides and parted on the left, where the hair was slightly longer and directed over the other side with hair gel. Suave came to mind. His forehead was average. Her eyebrows furrowed at why she would particularly note that--or really any of it, but she quickly unwrinkled them and went back to cataloging what new memories she could. A dimpled chin. A square jaw that met up with high cheek bones. Rich chocolaty eyes, olive skin tone, muscular perhaps--but hard to tell what’s under his frumpy clothes. Maybe Italian, maybe not, maybe handsome, maybe not her type. As she slowly scanned him over, he remained staunch in his silence.

She wasn’t sure what was wrong with her physically. Whatever they had her on was numbing. She still had use of her arms, she found out as she brought her hand up and felt for the tubes going down her throat. She slowly pulled them out, not losing eye contact with the one other person in the room. He seemed mostly curious, or was it amused? She found herself focused on her throat being relaxed, so as not to gag through the whole process. She tossed the tubing to the floor and flopped back down onto the pillow. She ran her hand along the side of the hospital bed till she found the buttons that would tilt her up into a sitting position. She noted that some details were second nature to her--maybe she’s been in a hospital before. She tried to think of things she should know, like her name, but she just kept repeating “name” in her head.

“Water,” she rasped. “Whoever you are, I need water.” He undid his arms and slung his jacket over the back of the visitor’s chair. He went to the sink and pulled a cup out of a dispenser. She noted his gait, broad shoulders swayed--he was someone in charge. In charge of what, though? He handed it to her, his fingers lingering on the cup as she wrapped her own fingers around the base. Their fingers touched; his warm and rough, hers soft and frail. She brought her eyes up to his, and he stared down at her with that look of amusement, curiosity--whatever it was, his eyes were at work on her.

“Thank you,” she said. He let go of the cup and backed up to the counter, his hands pressing behind him on the surface to support himself. He tilted his head back slightly, chin up, eyes still on the clock at work.

“Who are you?” she asked, holding back the other question: who was she?

“The doctors weren’t sure how much you’d remember or if you’d remember anything at all, but I didn’t believe them. I guess I’m wrong.” He had an accent. Was there a difference between how Brooklyn’s sounded verses the Bronx? He fell into one of those. How could she remember shit like that and not her own name?

He continued, “Come on babe,” pushing off the counter with his arms reaching out for her. “I’m your husband.”

“Husband?” it came out in a whisper. She mouthed it again, breaking their gaze. She stared down at her left hand. There was no ring—reasonable, being in a hospital they would remove those things--but there was no indent left on her ring finger from where it would’ve been. Had she been in a coma?

“Was I in a coma?”

“You were. That part is nothing to worry about. Maybe things will come back and maybe they won’t, probably better if they don’t babe. The doctor explained it, but that medical jargon is nonsense. You’re still my wife, and I want you to come home with me. I’m getting them to release you tomorrow.”

“Wait, how long was I in a coma?”

“A couple of weeks, no big deal.” He leaned over her, looking deep into her eyes. “You’re a fighter, and hard to kill.” There was something playful in his eyes, his eyebrows moving with them.

“You said the coma part is nothing to worry about. What other parts are there?”

He backed away from her. She looked over her body and tore the blankets back. Okay, she has her legs still. She wiggled her toes. And those too, she thought to herself. She pulled the tubes out of her body and sat up all the way. Her body tensed. Holding on to the bed, she stood up. A couple of weeks would not atrophy any muscles, but she still felt weak from only having liquids. She winced. Her catheter was still inside. She gently pulled it out.

“Please, husband. Don’t help.”

“She remembers sarcasm, but not her own husband’s name,” he smirked. All things considered, she had to smirk back. She went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Huh, she thought to herself. She was attractive, at least maybe she was. No other faces were coming to mind to gauge from, but she liked what she saw. Auburn hair, oval face, high cheek bones, blue eyes, full lips, ashen skin tone--hope that changes to something more appealing--all of which sums up to nothing being wrong with her face. There was some bruising on her neck. She tore her hospital gown off. The skin over her ribs and abdomen were a purplish hue, and there was a bandage partly stained with red. She noticed some sharp sensations and started to feel woozy.

“Husband,” she called. It wasn’t the pain. Exhaustion rushed over, and she needed to lay down. She looked past her reflection to him standing in the doorway. His eyes lingered on her breasts. She cleared her throat. “I need help back to the bed.” His eyes moved down to her ass.

“Three weeks in a coma, babe, has nothing on you.” He moved by her side and supported her weight, bringing her back to the bed. He helped her in and called for the nurse. Then he sat on the edge of the bed, his hand near hers, not touching.

“Shouldn’t you be holding my hand, and comforting me with husbandly assurances?”

“You want that? Wasn’t sure what kind of reception there would be for me.” Again, something in his eyes. He picked up her hand and held it. “I’m glad to know you’re open to me, and the lack of my presence in your memory isn’t hindering our relationship.” The smirk again.

“Oh, don’t get ahead of yourself, Husband. I’d like to see wedding photos when I get home tomorrow,” she smiled, and squeezed his hand. Home. She thought about what that even looked like. Best to play along till she could understand her situation better.

“About that, babe… We eloped, and you hate your photo being taken.”

“I do?” That was convenient. “So there are no pictures of us together?”

“I didn’t say that, just nothing to commemorate our vows ‘till death do us part.’” The nurse walked in. Upon seeing the patient awake, she rushed to her bedside where the monitors were.

“Who turned these off?!” she demanded. Her husband stood up and released her hand.

“I did,” Husband responded. She was going to have to get his name so she could stop referring to him as Husband. She would have to get her own name, too.

“Mr. Ferruci, that’s in violation of hospital rules,” the nurse replied. Well, part of that was answered. The nurse and Mr. Ferruci moved on over her thoughts.

“You must be new,” he began, but the nurse interjected.

“I know who you are,” she said.

His turn to interject. “Then you know to cut her some slack. Didn’t want you rushing in before she had a chance to see some answers for herself.” The nurse paused for an extended time, her mouth pursed as if to add more to their exchange, then straightened her lips and carried on with her business. She checked Mrs. Ferruci over, ignoring Mr. Ferruci’s presence.

“Glad to see you awake, Mrs. Ferruci.” Her tone was softened. “I’ve been one of your nurses on call. How do you feel?” she asked, and then quickly added, “Do you remember anything?”

“I feel like I should be back in a coma.” She gave a faint smile to the nurse. “I’m tired is all, and no, I don’t remember anything.” She wanted to ask what her own name was, but somehow felt embarrassed that she couldn’t even pull that out of her head.

“What do you remember?” The nurse pressed. “What’s your name?”

“Mrs. Ferruci,” she replied, looking past the nurse to her husband. He moved back to her side and looked down at her.

“Joss already knows her name.” His tone softened to match the nurse’s.

“I do,” Joss said, the faint smile returning to her face. “I’m Joss… Ferruci.” Ugh. It didn’t sound convincing to her, but since she didn’t have a name to recollect, she’d take it. The nurse looked at Mr. Ferruci and turned towards the door to leave, but she turned around before disappearing out of the room.

“I’ll be back to bring you an approved menu from the cafeteria. You’ve essentially been on a three-week fast, and we’d like to start you off on soft foods. Get some rest, Mrs. Ferruci.” And then she was gone.

“Thanks,” Joss said, looking up to Mr. Ferruci. “But can I get your first name so I can stop referring to you in my head as Mr. Ferruci? It sounds weird to be calling you that when we’re supposed to be intimate.”

“Oh, we’re very intimate--as intimate as two human beings can be, babe. Let’s see…you like to refer to me as Thick Dick and Handsome, Big Freddy, and my personal favorite, Heaven.”

“All I got from that was your level of maturity, and Freddy. Is that what I should call you? Freddy?”

“Fred is fine, babe. You’ll warm up to the other ones.” That damn twinkle in his eye, it was his first hook in her. She shivered.

“Well all right then.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow morning. Check-out time is 9 am.”

“You’re not going to stay the night here with me?” Such a loving husband.

“You’re going to need some clothes; they had to toss yours. I didn’t come prepared. No one thought you’d wake up this soon, least of all me. I’m a lucky bastard I was here when you did. Any other lucky bloke, and you’d have fallen for his charade of being your husband. Glad it was me.” He shook his head and gave a soft raspy chuckle. She didn’t share his laugh, nor smile. She gave an audible sigh.

“Don’t forget my ring, Fred.” She lifted up her left hand. “Or did that get tossed too?” The smile left his face and flew to hers. Her turn to chuckle, but it fucking hurt too much and came out as a cough.

“I’ll look into what happened to your wedding band. The nurse was right, you should get some rest.”

Then he was gone, and it was just Joss. Joss Ferruci.

Chapter One

Isolation can eat away at you, slowly, until there is nothing left—or it can aid in self-preservation. To accomplish the latter, I have made routine my companion. It keeps isolation's jaws from closing over me. I am as devoted to my routine as I am to my isolation, for as soon as my eyes open both come alive.

My routine and I begin by gathering vegetation from our small plot of tamed wilderness in preparation for a breakfast that will sustain us into our late morning walk. Each day this walk takes us farther than the day before (with slight variations due to new discoveries) until we are ready to go home. I never know how long we'll stay; we decide together when the time has come to turn back. On our return, we check our snares for the night’s dinner. We prepare our meal to the sound of the wood stove heating water for a bath. After dinner, this bath is where I sit till the day's worth of my routine has fallen from my flesh and mind. Isolation finds me there. The day is picked apart, its pieces unraveled from the whole; isolated moments reflected in my journal of the life I live to survive. When all this is done, sleep is a welcomed visitor—unless it brings guests from a life left behind.

Today was like any other day prior: I gathered strawberries and spinach, prepared breakfast, dressed myself. However, as soon as my mind shifted to the morning walk, I became keenly aware that I had become a creature of habit who had veered into the same direction every time without thought. As if some unseen force was choosing the steps for me. This new awareness confused me. The point of my habitual outing was to dig deeper into the unknown; for it was there I understood myself more. Nature after all, is the most accurate mirror to who we are; its reflection does not lie. I wondered what I was trying to accomplish before. I decided today to take a different direction. There was a noticeable change in the air that was electric. Oddly, outside seemed freer—wider, more opened. The energy settling around me quickened my stride into this new direction, filling me with purpose I've never felt. I lost myself pushing the miles out. The scenery blurred together as I moved, and I had almost stepped over him before I saw him. My mind snapped back from the groove it was forming to assess the obstacle in its way. My instincts knocked me backwards, fear almost escaping my throat. My silence did not mask my fear from the wolf that lay in front of me, only feet away. He snarled at the smell and attempted movement towards me, then yelped in anguish. Landing back down in defeat, his eyes seared mine with rage that retreated into exhaustion. I held his gaze for a few moments as air managed to find its way back into my lungs providing the oxygen to calm down and think more clearly. I could see that his left hind leg and right front leg were both broken. His shallow breath indicated broken ribs, and blood was oozing from his head. Despite his wounds, the fear and aggression I read in his eyes made me believe that he would not hesitate to kill me if he were able. I stood up, making my movements slow and intentional as I looked around him for evidence that might tell me what had happened. He kept watch over me as I moved around him. When he couldn't adjust his angle to mine, he would grunt in a manner I could only translate as frustration. I found nothing to explain his wounds—only awkwardly angled drag marks leading up a hill and rolling down into a valley below. Beyond that I couldn't tell how far he had come, nor did I want to. It's hard to define what I perceived at the bottom of those hills. My gut twisted itself looking down its edges, it seemed to remember something my mind wouldn't. I felt I was staring into the recesses of nature's soul and it didn't like me peering. Its glare forced my eyes back to the wolf. I squatted down to study his situation, pondering how I was to help him. The idea of leaving him vulnerable to other animals finishing him off didn't suit me. Helping him would put me at risk of an infection if he were to bite. With no living person near, this would be a reckless decision. Many others might have left him to die or put him down themselves, but the many do not live here. I do.

I took off my flannel and tore a wide long strip. I held it in front of him as I tied a loop and smoothed my voice out.

"I haven't had to use my words out loud for some time, but now it's necessary for you and myself to hear them. This is for your jaw. I will help you, but if you make an attempt on my life, I will take yours to save mine. This is for our protection, to keep both of us from the regret of taking a life."

I don't know what I expected from a wild beast, nevertheless I paused to search his eyes for understanding. His lack of acknowledgment gave me the stupid courage to wrap the makeshift muzzle around his jaw. I focused on my breathing, filling up with air first in my pelvic, then pushing it up to my chest till it ballooned with air. I held the balloon as I moved in towards him, astonished to find no resistance as I tied a loop under his snout. I counted the amount of time it took to secure the strips behind his ears with hums. Hum, hum, hum, and so forth—still holding my breath. My hands were the same size as his ears. I have never seen a wolf as big as this one, the length of him much longer than my small five-foot frame. The span of his face wider than my waist, I got lost in imaginations of him snapping it in half. I shook my head and released the air from my body. There was no way in hell I could lift him. The only option I had was to construct a stretcher and drag him over the miles I had come. I surveyed the area and found two thick sticks. I took what was left of my flannel shirt and buttoned it up, pushing the sleeves inside the shirt so that I could thread the sticks through them. This was the middle of my stretcher. I did the same with my reinforced windproof jacket, placing it at the bottom of the stretcher. With the sticks in place, I found two more sticks to attach as cross ends and tied them in place with my shoelaces. To complete the top portion for his head, I made do by taking off my top and stretching it over the ends. There I was in my bra, pants, and floppy tongue boots; figuring how I was going to drag him onto the stretcher. My eye caught his. The weariness I had seen behind the wolf’s eyes turned to what almost looked like laughter. My skin crawled. Animals aren't supposed to make you feel naked. His amusement turned to pain as I made my first attempt to slide him on. I'd placed my grip around his sternum and got as far as his chest when his head swung at one of my arms, knocking me to the side. Although his jaw was bound, I was stunned and shaking at the mere force of a head nod. He made that same growl that sounded like frustration. That's when I noticed another tear on his back. No matter which way I dragged him, I would be pulling on some wound. He was still when I approached him again, but I was not. My pulse climbed into my ears with shouting spasms. Shit, shit, shit—the only words in my head rising above the noise. I repeated to myself that I was cool and calm to reign it in before moving my hands to his sternum again. I could feel his developed muscles tense and I had to repeat the mantra again as I dug my heels in. I might have made a sound. If I did, I couldn't hear it over the blood surging in me as I dragged him up the rest of the way. To think that was the easy part plagued me—I knew the journey back was where the real physical struggle would be. I had looped my leather belt through the frame and around my hips as I reached back with both hands gripping the ends of the stretcher, but fuck did it cut in when I pulled his weight. Placing the belt lower on my body made the angle closer to the ground, and prevented him from sliding off the back of the stretcher; keeping him from rolling off the sides depended on my keeping it stable. I had to think of it as an extension of me; my body would move in certain ways to compensate as it shifted. My feet constantly slammed into the front of my boots—I thought several times of cutting the toes out. Despite the growing sensation of blisters forming, I didn't want to stop and lose momentum. Prolong the process and you'll prolong the pain. Better to burst through with an intensity that pulls the pain up to match and be done with it. Stubbornness goes a long way in the wild and that's exactly how far we have to go. Approximately three miles, a relatively short hike—till you add a hundred and ninety-seven pounds. His successful season of hunting sat around my hips, causing a dull throb that traveled through my lower body. I slipped myself around in the belt so that it dug into the back of my hips. This method provided some relief; however, the wolf was no longer out of view, and the reality of him could not be avoided. The paw from his good leg braced near my grip, his claws like arrows pointing at me with a sharp reminder. Icy shivers converging with beads of sweat seized me. I slipped around facing forward again and welcomed the sharp shoots going into my hips. Their ruckus shot any fears up and propelled me forward. Traveling half a mile an hour took nearly six hours to reach the cabin. Covered in sweat, dirt, and unfortunately a bit of urine; I fought back tears as I reached the door. I had fucking made it. The lactic acid must have eroded my ability to think; because I kicked the door open and broke the lock. I rushed to the bed, belly flopped on it with one end of the stretcher on top of me, and wriggled out of the belt and from under the weight of him. I came back around the bed to dead-lift the part of the stretcher that was still resting on the floor so that I could slide the rest of him onto the bed. Only for a moment did I pause to appreciate what was accomplished, for moments stolen detract from the overall goal. One foot in front of the other till he's where he needs to be.