Prologue
Light.
That's all I could see.
A bright white light that centered on a tall window, birds flying before them in a fast motion. Their wings cuffed together, giving somewhat of a shade to hide my eyes from the blinding light. My eyes started to adjust, and I could see buildings. They were lofty and slender. They had many windows with the view of workers piling binders of papers.
I focused on them more—until I heard a door open. I hopped in fear.
"Honey . . . ," said a woman.
I backed away to the back of my bed. I realized I was in a hospital, and the woman was getting closer. "Get away," I said.
"Don't you remember?" She said it ever so softly.
But then I realized I didn't remember anything. I don't remember my name, my age, not anything.
I remember nothing.
I remember nothing . . .
