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helps me back into bed after the first real shower I’ve been able to take since I got here. Thankfully, I have only foggy memories of the sponge baths that preceded it.
    “Jessie brought them,” I say.
    “Your wife has been wonderful,” she says as she refills my water and adjusts my bed.
    You mean my ex-wife.
    “From what I hear, she rarely left your side while you were in the ICU.”
    Jessie being here is one more thing I’m having trouble wrapping my brain around. Did we have some sort of reconciliation before I got shot? Surely I would remember if we had. Then again, I can’t remember my address, so what the hell do I know?
    When Jess walks into the room half an hour later I ask, rather abruptly, “When did we last speak?”
    She looked happy a moment ago, but her smile fades as she averts her eyes and looks away. She begins refolding the small stack of my clothes she left on the couch the night before. “It’s been a while,” she finally says. “Almost two years. I haven’t seen you since the divorce became final.”
    “We didn’t talk at all?” I ask.
    “No.”
    The doctor mentioned I’d have the most trouble with my short-term memory. He certainly called that one, because I can’t remember anything.
    I don’t remember the shooting at all, which is probably a blessing. And everything before that remains just out of reach. My head aches when I try to recall what I might have been doing, the activities I enjoyed, people I spent my time with. Was I alone or did I have someone in my life? The obvious answer is no, otherwise she’d be here. Wouldn’t she? But she’s not. Only Jess is here.
    This whole thing is so goddamn frustrating. Everyone acts like my recovery is a miracle, but I feel like my brain has been scrambled. It’s like being the only toddler in a room full of adults.
    Jess makes things easier. She’s my bridge between not knowing what the hell is going on and being able to make some semblance of my surroundings.
    I need to thank her, but when I go to open my mouth, I can’t remember what it is I was going to say.

CHAPTER TWELVE
    JESSIE
    Daniel’s doctors have scheduled a family meeting to go over his progress and outline the next steps in his recovery. At the appointed time, I say good-bye and gather up my things, but then Mimi says, “You aren’t coming, Jessie?”
    Everyone’s head turns in my direction, including Daniel’s.
    “Oh, of course I’ll come,” I say, stammering out a reply.
    Daniel is able to walk to a small conference room under his own power and with minimal difficulty except for his horrible balance. Jerry guides him, holding his elbow as Daniel lists to the side, zigzagging down the hall.
    His team of doctors is waiting for us, and they each have a file folder on the table in front of them. After we’re seated, they go through a list of the obstacles Daniel has overcome and those which are still a concern.
    “Muscle weakness and balance will need to show an improvement before we can consider moving from rehab to a home environment,” Dr. Seering says, which surprises no one after our walk down the hallway. “There are a number of functions that will need to be relearned, including basic life skills. The occupational therapists will focus on bringing these skills up to an acceptable level. Many of Daniel’s long-term memories have remained intact, but short-term memory recall will be an ongoing process.” Dr. Seering turns toward Daniel and addresses him directly. “I’m quite pleased with the progress you’ve made. You’ve surpassed our expectations.”
    “What about riding a motorcycle?” Dylan asks, sounding concerned.
    “That’s not advisable. His balance will be compromised for quite some time.”
    “I assumed as much,” Dylan says.
    This is Dylan in a nutshell. He doesn’t care about the answer. All he wants is to showcase Daniel’s weaknesses under the guise of caring. Getting under someone’s skin is his specialty, and even though