Memories surround me. I fly through them and only catch a glimpse of each one. They move in circles, hovering near me and whispering secrets in my ears that I can’t make out.

 I am dreaming. I am floating in my consciousness, occasionally reaching out to touch a thought or idea. I am weightless; I am free.

A piercing screech in my mind. I am slammed back into reality. My eyes open.

The room is lit by soft blue lamps. Otherwise, it is dark. I lift my hands—no, they’re trapped. Bound by padded straps to a cold metal chair. I turn my head to see an empty room.

 I cannot remember my name. The thought appears in my mind suddenly, but it consumes my consciousness. I have no name.

 I list the other things I should remember, but don’t. My address. The city I live in—or the country. My parents’ names. My age. There is a fog in my brain, a mist that pushes all the information I should have just out of reach.

 Footsteps. The door to the room opens and a man in a blue and grey uniform steps in.

 “Good to see you’re awake,” he says. He undoes the straps that bind me to the chair and I stand. I keel over and almost fall but he catches me.

 “This is normal after the process,” he says. His voice sounds far away, like an echo. “You’ll be able to stand in a few days. Most of your symptoms should be gone by then, too.”

 He motions to someone outside the door and another person enters with a wheelchair. She is dressed in the same uniform as the man, and together they lower me into the wheelchair and push it out of the room.

 The light outside of the room is blinding. I wince.

 “Where are we going?” I ask. My voice is hoarse, and speaking burns my throat. Was there a breathing tube they gave me that is irritating my airways now? Does that mean I was in surgery? Maybe this amnesia is a side affect of the procedure. Maybe it will go away.

 “We’re taking you to a seperate room to recover,” the woman says. Her voice is also far away. It ricochets across the walls and slams into my ears.

 “How long—” I start. I can’t finish before I erupt into a coughing fit. When the hacking and wheezing subsides, I feel something wet on the corners of my mouth. My tired, numb arm barely manages to wipe it away. I stare at it.

 It’s blood.

 “A few days,” answers the woman, and I thank her for understanding my half–spoken question. “Then you’ll go home.”

 “Home?” I ask. “Where?” If I have a home, that means there’s something normal waiting for me.

 “I believe it’s a nice plot of land in County Three,” says the man. “You’ll be happy to get there.”

 I nod, though my muscles are so stiff that I’m sure it looks more like a spasm. I have a home, somewhere in a place called Country Three.

 They wheel me into another room and lift me from the wheelchair, setting me down on a bed. There’s a window on the left wall and I stare through it, hoping for a glimpse of all the things I’ve forgotten.

 “Who are you?” I ask the man that remains in the room. He laughs.

 “Well, my name is Tyler, but I’m sure that doesn’t matter to you,” he says. “Most of my ebbing patients make small talk after the procedure. I don’t exactly know why.”

 Ebbing. The word is unfamiliar, but the way the man speaks about it, the word carries a tone of reverence. Importance.

 “In a few days,” Tyler says, “probably two if you’re a typical case, you’ll have mostly recovered and we can start to reeducate you.”

 “Reeducate?” I ask, a spike of fear in my voice. Tyler laughs again.

 “It sounds scarier than it is,” he says. “The amnesia you have means we need to explain the procedure we just went through again. Essentially, it’s a crash course in the last few days of your life.”

 So amnesia is a normal side effect. That means my memories will come back. I smile.

 “Thank you,” I say.

 Tyler nods. “Anything,” he says. “Any other questions before I leave you?”

 I nod. “Just one,” I say.

 “Shoot,” he says.

 I take a breath. “What is my name?” I ask. I don’t know why the question is so monumental to me, but as soon as I say it something in the room changes. I tense.

 Tyler pulls a folder from the coat of his uniform. He grins and stares at me as he opens it.

 “Let’s see what you chose.”