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Will she remember what happened? Will she still be our Annie?”
    â€œIt’s too soon to know if there will be deficits.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, deficits ?” The voice sounded thin and strained. Panicky.
    â€œWe have to take this process one step at a time. There’ll be lots of testing in the days and weeks to come—cognitive, physical, neurological. Psychological. The results will give us a better idea of the best way to help her.”
    â€œOkay,” the mom voice said, “how will we tell her everything? What if she asks for him? What do I say?”
    Him . Who was he? Someone who felt like a heavy sadness, pressing her down.
    â€œWe’re going to take each moment as it comes. And of course, we’ll continue to monitor her constantly.”
    â€œOh God. What if—”
    â€œListen. And, Annie, if you can hear us, you listen, too. You’re young and strong and you survived the worst of it. We’re expecting you to make a good recovery.”
    I’m young, thought Annie. Well, duh.
    Then she wondered how old she was. Weird how she couldn’t remember . . . She could easily recall being just four or five, in the sugarhouse with Gran. See how it coats the spatula so perfectly? That means the sap has turned into syrup . We can use the thermometer, but we must use our eyes, too.
    Then she was ten, standing on the front porch of the farmhouse, watching her father leave in a storm of pink petals from the apple trees. The truck was crammed with moving boxes, and Dad walked with astiff, resolute gait. Behind her, sobs drifted from the parlor, where Mom was curled up on the couch while Gran tried to soothe her.
    Annie’s world had cracked in two that day. She couldn’t put it back together because she didn’t understand how it had broken apart. There was a crack in her heart, too.
    â€œYou should go, Caroline,” someone said. “Get some rest. This process—it can take days, maybe weeks. She’ll be monitored round the clock, and we’ll call you at the first sign of any change.”
    Hesitation. A soft sigh. “I see. So then, I’ll be back tomorrow,” said Mom. “In the meantime, call me if there’s any change at all. It doesn’t matter if it’s the middle of the night.”
    â€œOf course. Drive safely.”
    Footsteps fading away. Come back . The voice in her head was a man’s voice. She didn’t want to hear it. She tried to listen to the other people in the room.
    â€œ. . . knew her in high school. She’s from that big family farm on Rush Mountain over in Switchback.” The voice was a gossipy chirp.
    â€œWow, you’re right. I swam against her at State one year. Small world.”
    â€œAy-up. She used to go around with Fletcher Wyndham. Remember him?”
    â€œOh my gosh. Who doesn’t? She should have kept going.”
    Fletcher. Fletcher Wyndham. Annie’s mind kept circling back to the name until it matched an image she held in her heart. She remembered the sensation of love that filled every cell of her body, nourishing her like oxygen, warmed her through and through. Did she still love him? The voice had said she used to go around with him, so maybe the love was gone. How had she lost it? Why? What had happened? We’re not finished . She remembered him saying that to her. We’re not finished . But of course, they were.
    She remembered high school, and swimming and boys, and the most important person in her life—Fletcher Wyndham. There was college, and Fletcher again, and then there was a great cracking sound and he was gone.
    She felt herself sinking as sleep closed over her. A phantom warmth lay across her legs and turned the darkness to a dense orange color, as though a light shone from above. Trying to stay with her thoughts, she wandered in the wilderness, a dreamscape of disjointed images—laughter turning to sadness, a journey to a destination