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knows you told," Erin argued gently. "And I'm not going to tell them. Really. I promise."
    What could be so big that Jenna couldn't tell her?
    "This is going to sound stupid."
    "I don't care how it sounds."
    Jenna nodded, the motion of her head abrupt and jerky. Nervous. Erin was growing nervous too, watching Jenna's hands twist in her lap, listening to the too-quick sound of her breathing.
    "So. Um. The days I'm gone. They're always the full moon."
    Erin blinked. She looked at Jenna.
    "The full moon?" she echoed, to be sure she was hearing it right.
    Jenna nodded.
    "Is that… What exactly are you trying to say?"
    Jenna opened her mouth to answer, but the honk of a car horn stopped her. She looked up at Erin, apology drawing her eyebrows down and twisting her mouth.
    "I'm sorry. That's my mom. I have to go."
    "Wait. Jen—"
    But she was already up from the swing and running across the yard, her ponytail swinging.
    Erin never had found out what Jenna was going to say. She hadn't come back to school after that. But she'd turned the words over and over in her mind, trying to see the conclusion they came to, wondering what they could mean that wasn't totally out of the realm of possibility. It always came back to one idea, though. An idea that couldn't possibly be right.
    It was a strange thing to be thinking about, that day in her backyard, as Erin went about her rounds. She hadn't thought of Jenna in a long time. But for some reason the memory was teasing at her, pricking her thoughts. She shrugged and continued on to the next patient.
    -------
     
    When Erin returned, the recent John Doe arrival was awake, sitting slightly up in bed. She was on her way out for the night, but she’d wanted to check in on him and see how he was doing. He looked groggy, and it took a moment for his eyes to focus on her. When they did, he frowned.
    "What happened?"
    "A couple of bikers called in a finding of an unconscious man on the side of the rode. You're in the hospital."
    His expression shifted from confusion to alarm.
    "The hospital?"
    Erin’s eyebrows lifted. "Yes."
    He moved to rise from the bed, and she hurried across the room to stand over it.
    "You shouldn't get up yet," she chided. "You have broken ribs, and there were some pretty bad lacerations on your torso."
    The expression on his face said he'd discovered the broken ribs when he moved, but he shook his head.
    "I really can't be here."
    "You want to explain just what you mean by that?" she asked.
    The John Doe took a sharp breath, like he was trying not to say something angry.
    "I'm checking myself out," he said, voice even.
    She couldn't stop him. It wasn't as though he was dying in the bed. But when he stood, she saw him sway, clutch at the railing of the bed for support. For all his size, he looked almost fragile in the paper hospital gown, with his hair ruffled and his face sheened with sweat. The faint flush in his cheeks concerned her.
    "I really can't advise that," Erin said firmly. "You're not well. You look like you have a fever, and you're only going to make yourself worse if you go running off right now."
    "Where are my clothes?"
    Erin huffed, but he didn't seem to hear it. She turned and pulled his bagged effects from the cabinet next to the bed. His shirt, of course, was gone. They’d cut it off of him to check his injuries. There had been a wallet in his pocket, but no ID. No credit cards. She handed the bag to him.
    He took it and glanced through it, making sure everything was there.
    “I’ll say it one more time,” Erin said, more gently than she had spoken before. “Checking yourself out will be against the advice of the hospital staff, and you should reconsider staying.”
    He pulled on his clothes under the paper gown, grimacing as the movement pulled at the sutured lacerations and jostled the broken ribs. Erin gave him a look that was definitely of the ‘I told you so’ sort.
    “I can’t stay,” he said, and his expression was almost