Chapter 2

The first thing I notice is the sound. Wipers thrashing across glass. Rubber screaming against rain. Then the smell—wet asphalt, gasoline, my own fear. I’m back in the truck. Same cracked vinyl seat under my thighs. Same old dashboard with a faded Jesus sticker crooked over the radio. Same strip of dead highway, nothing but black trees and white lines stretching ahead into nowhere. And him. He’s behind the wheel again, one hand loose at twelve o’clock, the other resting on his thigh. Head tipped slightly toward me like we’ve been talking for hours. Like this is just another late-night drive. The cab is warm, humid with our breath and the ghost of cigarette smoke. His profile is cut in pulses by the headlights of some car behind us. Strong jaw. Dark hair pushed back, too long at the nape. Shadow of stubble. I still can’t hold his face in my mind for more than a second. It’s like trying to stare at the sun. “Em,” he says quietly. My nickname. The one my mother used when she wasn’t drinking. “You’re back.” His voice punches right through my chest. Low, familiar, threaded with something brittle. I swallow. “I—this is… the same. As last time.” He snorts, not amused. “Last time. Right.” Wipers smack, smack, smack. “Do we—” My tongue feels thick. “Do we know each other?” He cuts me a look that could slice. “Yeah. You could say that.” A semi blasts past in the other lane, spraying our windshield with a sheet of dirty water. He leans forward, squinting, shoulders tensing. His knuckles whiten around the wheel. “You keep doing this,” he says, voice suddenly sharper. “You show up, you stare at me like I’m a stranger, you ask the same damn questions.” My heart stutters. “I don’t remember—” “I know.” His jaw flexes. “You never do.” The words land with a physical weight. Shame, hot and sour, floods my stomach. I grip the seat, nails digging into cracked vinyl. “I’m trying,” I say, hating the smallness in my voice. “I don’t know what you want from me.” He laughs once, humorless. “What I want? I want you to stop leaving me here, Em. That’d be a start.” “Leaving you where?” My pulse is climbing. The air feels thinner, cabin closing in. “This isn’t real. It’s just a dream.” He looks at me then. Really looks. Eyes dark, full of something that feels like history. “If this is just a dream,” he murmurs, “why do you always wake up with the same scar?” My gaze drops to my right palm, lying open on my lap. The crescent-shaped wounds are there, angry and red, like they never had a chance to heal. I jerk my hand back, heart slamming. “You saw—” “Em.” His voice softens, cracking around the edges. “You’ve asked me what my name is at least a hundred times. You beg me to tell you. You cry. You say you’ll remember this time. Then you wake up and it’s like none of it ever happened.” A hundred times. My throat burns. “I don’t… I only remember last night.” “Yeah.” He stares back at the road, shoulders bowing under some invisible weight. “Last night was actually last year for me.” “What?” He presses his lips together, like he’s said too much. The truck’s engine drones under us, steady and hypnotic. “I don’t—” My chest aches. “I’m sorry.” His hand lifts from the wheel, like he’s about to reach for me. Then he seems to think better of it and drops it back. “You’re always sorry,” he says quietly. “Doesn’t change a damn thing.” Something swells inside me, hot and desperate. I don’t know this man. I am sure I don’t. And yet the way he says “Em” feels like coming home and being slapped in the same breath. “What did I forget?” I whisper. His fingers tap the steering wheel, restless. Rain howls over the roof. “You forgot me,” he says. The words are so simple they almost don’t register. Then they do, and it’s like the truck lurches without moving. I suck in air that tastes like metal. “No. I—” “You forgot what you did.” He cuts over me. “You forgot that night. You forgot the way you let go.” Cold needles race up my arms. My skin pebbles. Out the windshield, the road is a black ribbon sliding toward us, too fast. Let go. “Let go of what?” My voice shakes. He looks at me again. There’s raw hurt there, but also something else—hope, thin as spiderweb. “Em,” he says, and it’s almost a plea. “Just… try. This time. Try to stay. Try to remember before—” The world screams. Headlights explode across the glass. A horn blares, long and furious. The truck jerks sideways, tires skidding on oil-slick asphalt. He curses, wrestling the wheel. My shoulder slams into the door. The seat belt bites into my chest. I know this part. I know it like my own heartbeat. “No,” I choke. “Not again, not—” The semi is sideways in front of us now, metal and light and impossible mass. Impact rushes toward us like a wall. He flings his arm across me, bracing. “Don’t let go this time,” he grits out. “Please, Em.” My hand finds his forearm, fingers clawing into muscle. It’s solid, warm, terrifyingly alive. The crash hits. Glass detonates around us. The world flips. Weightlessness yanks my stomach into my throat. There’s screaming—I don’t know if it’s me or him or the twisting metal. His hand grabs for mine in the tumbling dark. I clutch back. But the fear is a tidal wave, black and blinding. Somewhere in the spinning chaos, my grip slips. For a heartbeat, our fingers hang on by just our fingertips. His eyes find mine, suspended in that impossible slow-motion. Pain. Betrayal. A grief so deep it feels like a physical wound. “You’re doing it again,” he mouths. I let go. I wake with a silent scream lodged in my throat, sitting bolt upright in my bed. My sheets are tangled around my legs, damp with sweat. My T-shirt is stuck to my spine. The room is dark, streetlight bleeding in through cheap blinds, turning everything a sickly yellow-gray. My right hand is throbbing. I flip it over. The crescents are deeper now, some of them actually broken open, tiny beads of blood glistening in the lines of my palm. I taste iron in my mouth and realize I must’ve bitten my tongue. For a second, I can’t breathe. The urge to cry is so huge I almost choke on it, but no sound comes out. Instead, I stumble out of bed, slam the bathroom light on, and brace my hands on the sink, blinking at my reflection. Pale. Eyes too big, ringed with bruised shadows. Hair in a crooked bun that somehow survived sleep. “You’re fine,” I tell the girl in the mirror. My voice is hoarse. “You’re just tired. It’s just… dreams. That’s all.” Her eyes don’t believe me. By the time my alarm goes off, I’ve already showered twice, trying to rinse his voice off my skin. At the hospital, the air hits me like a different kind of storm—bleach and coffee and overheated bodies, the hum of fluorescent lights. Monitors beeping. Somebody crying in triage. The controlled chaos of the ER wraps around me like armor. Here, I know who I am. I have a badge and a role and a checklist. I do not have a man in my head who says I’ve forgotten him a hundred times. “Morning, zombie.” Mia falls into step beside me at the nurses’ station, shoving a paper cup into my hand. “Triple shot. You look like you need it more than I do.” “I love you,” I mutter, taking a grateful sip. It’s scalding and bitter and perfect. She squints at me over the computer. “Nightmares again?” I hesitate. Lie, Emily. Just say you watched Netflix too late. Just— “It was the same,” I hear myself say. “Same guy. Same road.” Her eyebrows shoot up. “Ooh. Recurring mystery man. Spicy.” “It’s not spicy.” Heat climbs my neck. “It’s… disturbing.” “So what, he’s like… hot?” She grins. “You’re blushing, so I’m gonna assume yes.” I picture the way his hand felt in mine as the world flipped. The way his eyes looked when I let go. “Doesn’t matter,” I say tightly. “He’s not real.” “Your subconscious would like to disagree.” She swivels on her stool, bumping my hip with hers. “Girl, you work nights in an ER. Your brain is just doing weird stuff with stress and hormones. Enjoy the free porn.” “It’s not—Mia.” I rub my forehead. “He acts like we’ve… been together. Like, for years. He knows things about me. Calls me Em. He’s pissed I don’t remember.” She whistles under her breath. “Commitment issues in your REM cycle. Rough.” “I’m serious.” “So am I.” She taps her temple. “This is classic stress dream material. Your last relationship was, what, college? You’ve been single forever, you sleep four hours a day, and you spend your nights elbow-deep in strangers’ blood. Of course your brain invented some tortured highway boyfriend to work through your abandonment trauma.” “Thanks,” I say dryly. “Very clinical.” She bumps me again. “Hey. If he’s good in bed, maybe invite him to the day shift. Save on dating apps.” I can’t even muster a laugh. “Mia…” Her smile softens a little. “Okay, sorry. Look, if it’s freaking you out, call psych, ask for a sleep study. But two nights of the same dream? That’s nothing. Come complain when he starts paying rent.” Her glibness should be comforting. It isn’t. It makes the whole thing feel thinner, like if I push too hard it’ll tear and there’ll be nothing underneath except me and my crazy. “Yeah,” I mutter. “You’re right. It’s nothing.” “Of course I’m right.” She winks. “Now go grab bed three, they’re puking. And maybe don’t tell them about your ghost boyfriend. Might not inspire confidence.” I’m halfway down the hall with a fresh gown when I hear it. A man’s voice, low and even, in the family consult room just ahead. That tone we use when people are about to break and we have to hold them together with words. “We’re doing everything we can,” he says. “I know it’s scary, but right now, your son needs you calm more than anything, okay?” I freeze. The sentence hits me with the déjà vu force of a slap. Not the words themselves—they’re standard-issue ER comfort. It’s the cadence. The exact gentle emphasis on “everything,” the steadying drop on “okay.” My heart stumbles. That’s how he talks in the truck, when the road is eating us and I’m shaking apart. That exact tone. A woman sniffles. “Okay. Okay.” The door opens. Dr. Noah Reed steps out, closing it softly behind him. Dark hair a little messy, white coat thrown over dark blue scrubs. He’s taller than I remember from last night’s blur in triage, broad-shouldered in a way that looks more accidental than intentional. His gaze sweeps the hall, landing on me. For a second his eyes sharpen, like he’s cataloging my vital signs from ten feet away. “Carter,” he says with a nod. “You on beds three through six?” My throat goes dry. “Yeah. Yes. I mean—yes, doctor.” Smooth, Emily. “Good.” His voice is quieter now, just for me. “Kid in three is a bad asthma exacerbation, we just tubed him. Mom’s hanging by a thread. Try to keep her upright.” I stare at his mouth as he speaks. Watch the way his lips form the words. The ghost of that other voice overlays his like a double exposure. You’re back. You keep doing this. You forgot me. “Emily?” Noah’s brow creases. “You with me?” I jolt. “Sorry. Long night.” His gaze flicks down to my hand where it’s clenched around the gown. I realize too late that my palm is exposed, the crescent cuts stark against my skin. “How’d you do that?” he asks. I curl my fingers, too slow. “Nothing. Just—cat.” “You don’t have a cat.” His tone isn’t accusing, just matter-of-fact. I blink. “How do you know that?” He hesitates, something like embarrassment flickering across his face. “Chart says ‘no pets’ under allergies section. I read fast.” It’s a thin excuse, but it gives both of us an out. “Right.” I force a laugh that sounds wrong even to my own ears. “Forgot we put that there.” He watches me for a beat longer than is comfortable. His eyes are a cool gray, darker than the man in my dreams, but there’s a similar heaviness in them. Like he’s carrying something he can’t put down. “If you’re not sleeping,” he says quietly, “tell someone before you drop in the middle of a code. I don’t like surprises.” It’s almost the same thing the man in the truck said when I flinched at the first flash of headlights. No more surprises, Em. We’ve done this before. My skin prickles. “I’m fine,” I say too fast. He doesn’t look convinced, but he steps aside to let me pass. As I move by, his sleeve brushes my arm. The contact is nothing, a fraction of a second. I feel it down to my bones. All through the shift, his voice ghosts around me. Giving orders. Calming people down. Saying “we’re doing everything we can” in that same quiet cadence. Every time, my stomach flips. By the time I get home, my nerves are stripped raw. The apartment is as I left it: dim, cramped, the hum of my ancient fridge the only sound. The lighthouse billboard is visible from my living room window, its painted beam cutting through a fake painted fog. I drop my bag on the couch and sink onto the mattress that pretends to be a bed. My phone buzzes with a text from my dad—Call me when you’re not on shift—and I flip it facedown. I don’t want his version of reality right now. What I want is answers. Before I can talk myself out of it, I unlock my phone and open the notes app. My thumb hovers over the empty white screen. This is stupid. It’s a dream. Dreams can’t— He knew about the cut before I showed him. My hand shakes. I type, fingers punching each letter harder than necessary. Who are you? We stare at each other all night in this truck and I wake up with nothing. Tell me your name. Tell me what I did. I hesitate, then add: Do we know each other in real life? The words sit there, black and incriminating. I swallow, hit save, and drop the phone on the floor like it might bite me. “This is insane,” I mutter. “You’re literally texting your own subconscious.” I lie down without even changing, exhaustion dragging at my limbs. The cut in my palm throbs in time with my heartbeat. I curl around it, like I can hide it from whatever’s waiting for me on the other side of sleep. It feels like I close my eyes for half a second. Rain on metal. Wipers. The truck’s engine under us, steady as a drum. I don’t remember the transition. There’s no falling, no drifting. One breath I’m in my apartment; the next I’m in the passenger seat again, seat belt across my chest, damp denim under my fingers. He’s there. Of course he’s there. This time, he’s not looking at the road. He’s already turned toward me, arm draped over the steering wheel, eyes tired in a way that makes my chest ache. “You really wrote it down this time,” he says quietly. “Progress.” My spine goes cold. “What?” He nods toward my hands. I look down. My phone is in my lap. Unlocked. Notes app open. The words I typed are right there, glowing softly in the gloom. Who are you? Do we know each other in real life? My mouth dries out. “How—” He exhales, a rough, almost bitter sound. “You always think you’re the only one trapped in this, Em.” My fingers tighten around the phone. The plastic feels too solid, too real. “You… you can see this?” I whisper. He lifts his gaze to mine, and there’s no anger in it this time. Just a bone-deep exhaustion and a thread of something like relief. “I’ve been reading your questions for a long time,” he says. “Every time you write them, every time you delete them, every time you promise you’ll remember.” My heart slams so hard it hurts. “So answer them,” I say, voice shaking. “Please. Who are you?” His throat works. For a second, I think he might finally say it. His name. The thing my whole body is braced for without knowing why. Instead, his gaze flicks to the windshield, where the first distant flare of headlights is beginning to bloom in the rain. “You’re asking the wrong question,” he says softly. “You should be asking why they made you forget.” “Who is they?” He smiles without humor. “You tell me. You live there.” Fear claws up my ribs. “This isn’t—this can’t be real. You can’t actually—” “Read your notes?” He gestures toward the phone. “Argue with your therapist in your sleep? Bleed when you dig your nails into your hand?” His jaw tightens. “Tell yourself whatever you have to, Em. But stop pretending you’re not the one who left me on that road.” The semi’s horn screams in the distance, closer this time. My vision tunnels. “Please,” I whisper. “I don’t remember. I swear I don’t.” “I know you don’t.” His voice breaks on the words. “That’s the worst part.” The truck shudders as if hit by a gust of wind. My fingers clamp around the phone. The headlights ahead swell, swallowing the world. “Wake up,” he says urgently. “Before they hear you asking the wrong things again.” “Who?” I choke. The crash slams into us. I jerk awake in my bed, heart pounding, sheets twisted around my legs. The room is silent. No rain, no horns. Just the buzz of the fridge and the faint rush of traffic twelve floors below. For a moment I lie there, gasping, waiting for the rest of the world to catch up. Then I remember. My phone. I lunge for the edge of the mattress, patting blindly until my fingers close around smooth plastic. The screen lights up under my thumb. Notes app. Last note. My questions are still there, exactly as I typed them. But beneath them, in a line I did not write, in text the same size and font as mine, is a new sentence. Stop asking who I am. Ask why you let them erase me.