a coat, and carried the wet clothes back to the main room.
The storm created a steady drone on the cottage’s shingle roof as Keira built her fire. In the same way her legs had known how to run, her hands seemed to hold on to the memory of how to light the kindling, and the blaze was soon radiating heat through the room.
Keira stayed kneeling in front of it for a minute, hands extended, as she absorbed some of the warmth. Once her shaking stopped, she plucked the pile of wet clothes off the hearth and shook them out.
The T-shirt seemed cheap and well worn; she guessed it had been teal before repeated washing bled the color down to a watery gray. The jeans had a rip in the side, and not the deliberate, fashionable kind. But the boots and jacket both seemed to be of good quality, although old. She supposed that made sense; they were the two most valuable pieces of clothing for someone roughing it: sturdy shoes to protect her feet and a thick jacket to keep her warm. She hoped she hadn’t stolen them.
After draping the T-shirt over the back of a wooden chair, she propped the boots in front of the fireplace to dry. Keira then felt through the pockets. The jeans were empty, so they joined the T-shirt to air out, but the jacket had two zippered nooks full of treasure. A crumpled twenty-dollar bill came out of the left pocket. And, in the right, she found a small black-and-white photograph.
Keira unfolded the picture carefully and squinted at the grainy figures. It depicted three people, two men and one woman, facing the camera. They all wore neutral expressions and stiff, strange suits. The clothes looked like some kind of uniform, but Keira couldn’t guess which sector they belonged to.
The first man—tall and with an exceptionally thin face—and the middle-aged woman with a pinched mouth and rectangular glasses prompted no emotional response. The third figure, though, made bile rise in the back of Keira’s throat. She knew him. She hated him.
Why? C’mon, brain, throw me a bone here. What did he do to you? Is he a relative? No, you don’t know him that well… A friend’s parent? A boss? Some jerk who keyed your car?
She squinted at the face. It was deeply scored with creases, although he couldn’t have been more than forty. Heavy brows complemented a thick jaw and dark hair. The eyes held an unnerving intensity even when screened by the camera. A silvery shape over the lapel of his suit was faintly reminiscent of a name badge but was too small to see clearly. She sensed that it was some kind of insignia, like a medal or military rank, that set him apart from his peers.
She flipped the photo over. Someone had penciled seven words onto the back. Keira scrunched her mouth as she read them.
DON’T TRUST THE MEN WITH FLAKY SKIN
“Okay.” She tilted her head to the side as though that might somehow make the message clearer. “So should I stay away from people with dandruff or what?”
Unsurprisingly, the message didn’t reply. Keira carefully placed the photo on top of the fireplace mantel, where it could dry out, then dragged the couch closer to the hearth and snuggled into it.
Searching her clothes had given the fire time to warm her. She pulled her feet up under her and folded the blanket around herself as she watched the flickering flames.
I’ve been lucky, she thought as thunder cracked overhead. Sure, the whole no memory thing sucks pretty badly, but in other ways, I couldn’t have had better fortune. Tonight could have been spent hiding in an alley or huddled in the forest. Instead, I’ve been given food, shelter, and the promise of help. That’s a lot to be grateful for.
And hey…maybe it’s a good thing I don’t know who I was before. Some part of my life must have gone very wrong for me to end up like this. Maybe this is the universe’s way of giving me a second chance.
She turned to watch the rain flow down the window. Mist coalesced just beyond the glass, seeming to caress the frame as it passed.
Keira frowned. She could have sworn she’d heard something. A deep wailing sound, distorted and muffled by the fog until it was close to inaudible. She waited, holding her breath. The mist beyond the window seemed to thicken. It was like a soup, swallowing the cottage, cutting her off