"Rachel," she said, almost incensed that the questions were even being asked by the man she'd asked several times to leave already. "It's nineteen-seventy—" she trailed off, realizing the number wasn't coming easily to her. Her voice began to rise in panic. "Nineteen-seventy…" Was it 1978? 1979? Why was she not being able to remember?
It had been there all along, hovering beneath the surface of sleeping draught haze and healing procedures. When they probed her about this so-called attack and she hadn't been able to tell them anything, no one seemed overly concerned. Short-term memory loss, they had said, was common, particularly in victims of a violent attack or other trauma, as well as a history of head injuries. Rachel's head was murky, this was true, but having only been awake for such a short time, there hadn't been a need for her to remember much. But then here was this man who she was certain was a stranger, even though there was something frustratingly familiar about him, asking her a simple question she couldn’t answer.
Clutching the blanket to her with a fist nearly white at the knuckles, she jerked her head away from him. "You're not my Healer," she responded instead, trying to stem the flow of panic inside her. "You have—no right to stay here and harass me. Leave." She pulled the covers tighter, keeping her head craned away despite the discomfort, for fear that the stinging in her eyes would lead to tears. "Please."
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