The road captain and his lost lady

First Morning

*Jane Doe*

I wake because someone knocks twice on the door and then waits.

The sound is quiet enough that I almost think I imagined it. Then someone calls; “come down when you are ready.”

Morning light has turned the harbor window silver. My head feels stuffed with wool, and every part of my body complains when I try to move.

For one awful second, I do not know where I am.

Then I see the unfamiliar dresser. The faded rug. The chair by the door.

Nick is gone.

The chair is empty, but the glass of water from last night has been replaced with a fresh one. Beside it sits a packet of crackers, still unopened, and a folded note in blocky handwriting.

‘Eat something. Ben says it helps.’

No name. He does not need one.

I stare at the note longer than I should.

A person does not leave water unless they expect you to wake up thirsty. A person does not leave crackers unless they have noticed you did not eat dinner. I know these things. I must have known them before last night.

The knowledge makes the room feel dangerous in a new way.

I pull the blanket around my shoulders and test the window latch.

Still locked.

The guest room door opens with the key lying on the inside table. I turn it once, hear the lock engage, then unlock it again. The small metal click goes through me like a current.

I take the crackers and force myself to eat two.

They taste like dust.

By the time I make it downstairs, holding the railing with one hand, the clubhouse has changed shape. Daylight makes it less threatening, though I am not sure that is the same as safe. Sun pushes through the harbor-facing windows, laying bright rectangles across the worn wood floor. The bar is cluttered with coffee mugs, folders, a child's pink hairbrush, and three helmets.

Dylan is behind the bar with a laptop open in front of her. She looks up when she hears me on the stairs.

"Morning," she says. "How's the head?"

"Present."

"Excellent. We aim low around here."

The joke lands gently. I find myself walking toward the nearest stool.

Tom sits at the far end of the bar, phone pressed to his ear, one hand around a mug of coffee. He looks like he has not slept much. The black leather band is still around his wrist, though he has pulled his sleeves down today.

My stomach tightens anyway.

I focus on the bowl of oranges beside the register.

Dylan watches me notice the watch. Her gaze flicks to Tom. A few seconds later, without a word, Tom takes the watch off and slides it into his pocket.

He does it so casually that I almost pretend I did not see.

"Nothing from the plate yet," he says into his phone. "Keep working it. And check abandoned vehicles around the county line."

He listens, his expression flattening.

"No. Don't put a description out. Not yet."

Then he ends the call.

"Morning," he says to me.

"Good morning."

It sounds absurd. Polite language is the only thing I have that still fits in my hands.

Dylan pours coffee into a clean mug, then pauses. "Tea?"

"Yes, please."

"Chamomile?"

I nod.

She sets the kettle on, while Tom comes around the bar carrying a slim manila folder. The folder has no label. That bothers me less than it should. Labels can be dangerous. I do not know why I know that.

He stops a few feet away.

"Isabella's will be here soon," he says. "She's our lawyer… and my wife."

I glance at the folder. "Am I in trouble?"

"No."

The answer is immediate. Solid.

Tom pulls out the stool next to mine but does not sit. "We need to talk about what happens if somebody asks questions. Sheriff. County deputies. Hospital. Anybody. You don't have identification, and you don't remember enough to make a missing-person report useful yet."

My fingers close around the edge of the bar.

"You're going to report me?"

"Not without your say-so."

I search his face. He is young for the authority he carries, I think. Not young exactly. Thirty-something, perhaps. But there is something in him that looks newly sharpened, as if other people have started waiting for him to decide things.

"Then why do I need a lawyer?"

"Because people who hurt you sometimes know how to use systems better than people trying to get free."

The kettle begins to whistle.

Dylan takes it off the heat. She does not look at either of us while she makes my tea. That privacy, offered without announcement, presses against something fragile inside me.

Tom sets the folder on the bar but keeps his hand over it. "Isabella can make sure we don't do anything stupid. She can also tell us what your choices are if your memory comes back and you want to use them."

If.

The word opens a cold space behind my ribs.

"What if it doesn't?"

Tom's expression does not soften into pity. I am grateful for that, though I cannot say why.

"Then we deal with that when we get there."

It is not an answer. It is the first honest thing anyone has said about it.

Dylan slides the tea toward me, steam curling over the rim. "Drink before Tom scares you into fainting again."

"I am not scary," Tom says.

"You're standing over a woman with no name while holding an ominous folder."

"It's a very ordinary folder."

"Which is what makes it ominous."

A man laughs from the doorway.

Tommy walks in and slings his arm around Dylan's shoulders, brown hair still damp from a shower, wearing a clean Vipers shirt and jeans. He kisses Dylan's temple, then looks at me with open concern.

"How're you doing?"

"I don't know," I say.

His smile fades. "Fair."

Dylan nudges him with her elbow. "Get food. You're hovering."

"I'm checking on a guest."

"You've checked. Go make toast."

Tommy gives me a quick, apologetic shrug and heads for the kitchen. He moves easily around Dylan, stealing a piece of fruit from the bowl as he passes. She slaps at his hand without looking. He catches her wrist, kisses the inside of it, and keeps walking before she can tell him off.

It is a small thing.

It leaves me staring at the steam above my tea.

A memory tries to come. A man's hand closing around my wrist. The pressure too hard. A low voice, pleasant for other people, saying, Smile. Everyone's watching.

My stomach turns.

I grip the mug.

"Hey." Dylan's voice is quieter now. "You with us?"

"Yes."

It is a lie, but a serviceable one.