Clara continually had to remind herself that she was a bit lost in time and every time she did, she did so with a pang of anxiety in her gut and a worried look to her father. In her head she was a fifteen year old girl who had plans to go to the mall that weekend with Nina and had just last month celebrated the fifth birthday of Angie Maitland, had just watched over her and her younger brother Artie on Tuesday night. That's how she had the twenty pounds in her pocket to shop, except she didn't. She had a pale green hospital gown and a growing ache in her right leg that didn't seem to subside no matter how much medication they added into the sack hanging at her side.

"Dad, can't they just inject it directly?" She prompted, earning her a look of concern.

It seemed that was the look permanently etched onto his face since she'd woken. Every question met with a quiet terror that left her wondering what she'd asked wrong. Glancing to the door, she imagined the Doctor would have an answer. He was just as worried, just as tormented by her situation as her father, but he hid it in a way that calmed her. The thought made her grin because despite her lack of memories – despite the fog that sat heavily in her head – she knew he was simply responding to her how he always had.

Exactly how she needed.

And, looking to her father, chewing nervously at his lip, what she needed was someone to tell her why her leg felt like it had caught fire and why the nurses exchanged glances when she mentioned it. "What's wrong with my leg?" Clara demanded, shaking her head when Dave hesitated, "Don't… make something up, I know it's broken, crushed, whatever, and I know how it happened, but what's wrong with it – because I know something is wrong."

"Clara," he said softly, "Let's not worry on the leg right now."

"Telling me not to worry," Clara began with a shaky voice she still hadn't gotten used to – too deep, too grown up to be her own, and yet it was – before finishing on a squeak, "Is making me worry."

Because in her mind she wouldn't be able to dance without the use of her leg and she knew the boys in school wouldn't take kindly to a wheelchair on dates and somehow she understood that's what was wrong. Aside from the fact that she wasn't in school anymore, she knew her leg would never be the same again – she would never be the same again. Clara watched her father grab hold of the railing just beside her and he took a breath, exhaling slowly and his eyes closed. She knew, instantly, that what he had to tell her was horrible and for a moment she was angry he hadn't told her sooner.

"You keep telling me I'm a grown woman," Clara growled, "And you're treating me like a child."

"Because right now you are a child, Clara," he spat back in frustration. "Your head – without your memories, you're just fifteen, and I remember fifteen. Smart as a whip, but Clara, your mum kept you so incredibly sheltered. Filled your mind with all of this worldly knowledge and then kept you safe in her arms to watch it from inside of that bubble…"

"Don't talk about mum like that," she interrupted.

His eyes pinched shut and he nodded, "I don't mean it that way; not the way it sounds."

"It sounds terrible!" Clara croaked through tears she bit back. "Mum and I were going to travel the world, you know – after school. Take a year and travel everywhere…"

Dave's head dropped slightly with a smile and when he looked up, she was clenching her jaw, trying her best to control her emotions, but he knew Clara was broken on the inside over re-learning of her mother's death. The first time she'd refused to talk to him for days; she locked herself in her room and read and slept. Until he climbed in through her window and she saw him cry…

"You were, weren't you," he sighed, "She wanted to take you to America, to the Islands in the Caribbean where you agreed you'd be pirates for a day and steal something, then to Australia and Russia and China – just like that book of yours."

Clara laughed lightly, sniffling and bringing her left hand up to swipe at her eyes. "We'd started a list."

"I still have it," he replied quickly.

Frowning, Clara shook her head and asked, "I never went?" Because she was supposed to turn that list into a scrapbook and she was supposed to have it – not him.

Shifting on his feet, Dave shrugged, "You've travelled, just… not to the places on your list."

"Where have I gone?" Dave glanced to the door and back again and Clara asked delicately, because she knew he harbored resentment towards the Doctor, "I've travelled with him, haven't I?"

"I don't really know where you've gone," he admitted. "It's sort of whirlwind, what you've got with him – don't see you for days, sometimes weeks without a word. Too busy with work and… marriage."

Clara swallowed roughly and looked to the drawer next to her, the one that held a ring she tried on every night that still wouldn't slide over her swollen flesh. "You don't like him; is that why?"

Chuckling, Dave sat on the bed beside her, mindful of the leg he could see was still on her mind – her eyes had gone wide and her body had shifted forward as he sat in some attempt to silently keep him away from it – and he sighed, "It's not that I don't like him, Clara. The Doctor's been nothing but wonderful to you. For you. It's just, losing my baby girl… I don't think any father is ever truly alright with it. And he can be dangerous," he finished, looking to the ground as she contemplated it.

"You blame him for the accident," she surmised.

He shifted to look at her, nodding slowly, "He should have kept you off that bike."

With a smile, Clara asked, "Do you really think he could have stopped me?"

A small laugh escaped his lips as he raised a hand to her bruised jaw, thumb running gently over her chin as he shook his head and admitted, "I suppose he couldn't have – but he should have tried."

His hand fell away and rejoined with his other on his lap as Clara simply watched, ignoring the sudden buzz of pins and needles shooting between her foot and her knee. She knew that as much as this was confusing for her, it was heartbreaking for him. There were fifteen years of lived time he knew about that she didn't and she could see that those fifteen years hadn't been the easiest.

If what he said were true, if what the Doctor said were true, she'd been married at twenty eight. Clara knew herself, she wouldn't marry quickly and she imagined the courtship and engagement would have been a few years, so she might have been maybe twenty four or twenty five when she met him. She wished she could remember it, where they'd gone and what they'd done and how often they'd been travelling around and she put it on a growing list of things she had to ask about the Doctor.

They'd had conversations. Playful exchanges about ordinary things: her IV, her injuries, her Jell-o, the haircut she thought she needed, the bedpan he teased her about… but they'd discussed little about him. Clara smiled, thinking of the idiotic grin he offered when he entered the room and the way he excitedly told her about the nurse's station – as though he were unfamiliar with how a hospital worked. Everything about him made her curious and yet, they'd managed to avoid talking about him for several days now.

He asked about her pain. It's alright, lots of meds to help with that.

He asked about her therapy. Going well, being bent about awkwardly.

He asked about her dreams. Dream about mum, sometimes space, which is weird.

The Doctor though, the Doctor was off limits and she looked to her father – if the man who was her husband was this much of a mystery to her, what was he to her father? What did the man know about him? She watched him fidget with his fingers and she asked him lightly, "How did I meet him?"

He smiled, "Isn't that a question for him?"

"Yes," she replied curtly with a smile, "But he's keeping mum about himself it seems. It's making me think there's a whole lot about my life he doesn't want me to know." Considering her words, Clara tilted her head slightly to ask, "Did I turn out to be a horrible person?"

"No, Clara," Dave told her, brow knotting tightly, "No, of course not Clara. You're wonderful. You're a brilliant teacher – the kids all love you – and you're an amazing person; go out of your way to help everyone," he laughed, words tapering off as he considered it and looked up to catch her frowning at her lap.

Picking at the bandage on her arm, Clara lowered her head to mutter, "Then why won't he talk about himself, or about our life together?"

Dave watched Clara shift in frustration, closing his eyes against the wince she gave as her leg moved within the sling and he sighed, "Sweetheart, it's complicated."

"Uncomplicate it," she growled. "Just tell me how I met him."

"You'll have to ask him."

"Do you not know?" Clara demanded.

He raised a hand, "Clara, you have to stay calm, alright? Everything is complicated right now. We've got to figure out how to give you back fifteen years of your life while trying to get you better."

With a small nod, she took a breath and when she spoke, it was frigid, "You want to give me back fifteen years of my life by not telling me anything about the last fifteen years of my life. You take him into the hallway where I can't follow and when you return you both look as though you've seen a ghost and then you won't talk to me. You want me to get better, but I don't know what's the matter – and I get the feeling it's more than a few bones and a few patches of skin and this crack in my head."

Dave stood at the bed, watching her turn away, to look out at the bright skies outside and he bit his lip before explaining, "We're doing the best we can, Clara."

She sighed, and then she asked calmly, "Dad, what's wrong with my leg?"

"Clara…"

"What's wrong with my leg?" She repeated sternly.

He dropped onto the bed again beside her and reached out for her hand, taking it delicately in his as he looked over the bandage and then swung his vision to the wrapped half of her limb before looking back and admitting, "It's not healing the way it should." He swallowed roughly and watched her do the same, "Can you feel anything in it, Clara?"

She nodded, slowly, and admitted, "It's like static, pins and needles."

Releasing a breath, he offered a weak smile and told her carefully, "They might have to amputate your leg, Clara, to save your life."

Her jaw clenched tightly and her eyes drifted to the metal screws that disappeared into white gauze and slowly she blinked and told him with a smile, "Good then, just a leg right?"

"Clara," he sighed, shaking his head.

But Clara pushed her lips together and told him, "A leg for my life – that sounds like a pretty fair trade, doesn't it, dad?"

He looked to the way she was still examining the swollen toes exposed just beyond the bandages, the shimmer of tears just beginning in her eyes and he raised her hand to kiss it before whispering, "They want to do it soon."

She nodded, "When it's over, how soon can I go home?" Turning she finished, "Because the leg's what was keeping me here, right? Therapy and recovery – if they just cut it off, how soon can I go home?"

Licking his lips, he shrugged and shook his head, "I don't know, Clara."

Clara looked to the door, avoiding her father's stare, and she wished the Doctor were there. She imagined that somehow he would have some different answer for her. The Doctor wouldn't watch her sadly, thinking about what she would be losing – he would be offering suggestions for what she would gain. A new appreciation for the leg that remained; the prosthetic leg she could decorate as she pleased or throw at him in an argument; a faster shower and shave. She smiled lightly, hearing his voice in her mind so clearly it made her heart thump and the monitor at her right beeped four times in quick succession twice.

And Clara had the strangest thought that, for just a moment, she had two hearts.