Page 109 of The Broken Keys

When machines and printouts remember more than you.

Beeping machines. Hushed voices. And a hospital room that feels like it’s closing in on me.

My eyelids are heavy, fighting against the weight of whatever drugs they’ve pumped into my system. Voices filter through the fog, familiar and unfamiliar all at once.

“Her vitals are stable.” Something tight around my arm loosens, and a woman keeps speaking. “Blood pressure’s good and her heart rate’s normal.”

“What about the concussion?” That person I know. Callum. His tone carries an edge of worry that makes my chest tighten even through the haze. “Is she gonna be okay?”

“The doctor will discuss everything with her when she wakes up. For now, all signs are positive.”

I force my eyes open. The room swims into focus, white ceiling tiles, fluorescent lights turned low, and medical equipment surrounding the bed I’m lying in.

A nurse stands beside me, checking the IV in my arm. Callum hovers on the other side, his blue eyes locked on me with concern that jolts me more awake.

“Lily.” Callum sighs heavily as he reaches for my hand. “Thank God.”

“Callum?” I slide my palm into his. My throat is raw and I’m hoarse. “What happened?”

A doctor approaches my bedside, taking the nurse’s place. “Ms. Hemings, I’m Dr. Knight. How are you feeling this morning?”

“My head hurts and my body aches.” I try to sit up, but pain shoots through my skull and ribcage, forcing me back down. “Oww. That was miserable.”

“That’s normal with a severe concussion and the other injuries you sustained. I need to ask you some questions to assess your cognitive function. I need to see if anything has changed from yesterday.” He pulls a penlight from his pocket and checks my pupils. “Can you tell me your full name?”

“Livianna Grace Hemings.”

“Good. And how old are you?”

“Eighteen.” I glance at Callum.

His grip on my hand tightens and his eyes twitch.

Dr. Knight stands upright. “Ms. Hemings, I’d like to explain something to you.”

The shift in his tone sends ice through my veins. “Explain what?”

“You’ve experienced a traumatic head injury resulting in retrograde amnesia. Based on your responses, it appears you’ve lost a significant period of memories.”

“Amnesia?” My breathing picks up speed. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve told our medical staff twice now that you’re eighteen when in fact you’re twenty-three. It appears you’ve lost approximately five years of your memory.”

That makes no sense. Five years? That’s impossible. I forcemyself to process what he’s saying, but my mind can’t connect the pieces.

“Five years?” I sit up, agony be damned. I need answers. “You’re wrong. Callum, tell me the truth.”

He shrugs, and Dr. Knight continues his medical explanation.

“I understand this is frightening. But your brain has protected itself by reverting to a safer time. The last clear memories you have are from when you were eighteen.”

“But I am eighteen.” The panic staggers up my throat now, sharp and suffocating. “I’m eighteen. I just flew to New Jersey for Callum’s birthday. That was yesterday.”

Callum’s face crumbles into a grimace. “Lily?—”

“No.” I pull my hand from his, my lungs constrict with each breath. “No, this isn’t real. You’re wrong. I’m eighteen. I know I’m eighteen.”

Dr. Knight pulls out a phone from his white jacket and does something on the screen. “Ms. Hemings, you’re twenty-three years old. You’ve lost five years of your life due to head trauma.”