The door jingled, and she glanced over the top of the paper for the first time in what felt like hours. Her first observation was the new patron (labeled such because she had never seen him before). Her second observation was that the only free table was the one next to her own, and that she’d either have to ignore him entirely or feign cold politeness to keep him from starting conversation.

Neither worked.

“Hello,” he said in greeting, dusting the remnants of melting snow off his shoulders as he sat beside her. “Cold this morning.”

“Mmm.”

“Anything good here?”

“Yes.” He tilted his head, and she sighed and set the paper down. “It’s all good. The menus are up by the counter.”

His head remained tilted, almost as if he was studying her. What a weird habit. She raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t unattractive – he had pretty blue eyes framed by glasses, and his hair was a well-kempt light brown. In another lifetime, he might’ve had a chance.

“I’ll just have whatever you’re having,” he said, smiling.

“I’m drinking cappuccino and eating an everything bagel with cream cheese.”

“You like everything bagels?”

She blinked. Who the hell cared? “Of course.” She downed the rest of her coffee, gathered up the remnants of the newspaper, and stood up to leave. “I have work in ten minutes. Enjoy whatever it is you decide on.”

“My name is Jake,” he said. “I hope I see you again.”

“No, you really don’t.”

-

She wasn’t what he was expecting. The Leslie Hank remembered had been young and full of life, even into her early college years when her illness became progressively harder to treat. Now, though, stepping off the plane and into the bright light of day, she looked as thought she’d aged twenty years. Her eyes were sunken into the hollows of her face, her lips were chapped to bleeding, and her already wiry frame looked close to… to… he could not bring himself to think it.

When he hugged her, it was like hugging a stranger.

“So,” she said, clutching her bags with surprising strength. He offered to take them from her, but her knuckles grew white around the handles, and he knew better than to try any further. “What do they want me to do?”

“He has retrograde amnesia. They think if you talk to him, he’ll snap out of it.” His own hands clenched; it wasn’t until he felt his fingernails digging into his palms that he realized he was doing it. “You’re the only thing he can remember.”

“And if he snaps out of it, they can press charges.”

She was always the smart one. “Yeah, something like that.”

She was mostly quiet on the walk to the taxi, interrupting the silence every so often with “How’s Gloria?” this and “What did you do with the new house?” He answered as best he could. He missed the kid, he really did, but talking to her had become increasingly difficult over the years. She was bitter – understandably so – and Hank no longer knew how to reach her. He doubted her stupid ass boyfriend knew, either.

Okay, so the boyfriend wasn’t stupid. He was practically achieving sainthood at this point for being with her for so long, and he was one of the very few people on earth who could match Leslie’s intellect. But he was an ass, the same kind of over-privileged dickhead that Hank spent years trying to teach his niece to avoid, so she wouldn’t wind up like her parents. Perhaps she was up for sainthood, herself.

She seemed unfazed by the change in the environment (Boston was no Chicago) and the journey to the inevitable, but Hank knew better. Her knee twitched throughout the cab ride to the penitentiary, and she outright flinched when the car pulled to a stop at the curb. He felt a sudden pang, as though he were the one putting her through this – and in a way, he was.

Necessary sacrifices for the better good. She’d learned that one long ago.

“You gonna be okay?” He swallowed, preparing himself for the lie. “I can try and get someone else—”

“I’m as okay as I’ll ever be,” she said. Firm, like the tone could somehow strengthen her resolve. And then, seeing into his soul: “Cut it out with the ‘concerned uncle’ shit. If that’s what it takes to ease your conscience, then you’ve lost your nerve.”

He opened his mouth to apologize, but nothing came out. She wasn’t listening, anyway; her attention turned to the ugly building before her. Perhaps it was for the better.

-

Harrison’s voice woke him from a restless slumber. “Hello.”

The patient, closer to his breaking point than he realized, placed a hand over his eyes to avoid the bright floodlights. “Yes?”

“We’ve brought someone to talk to you. Would you be willing to do that for us?”

He sat up. “Is it… is it her?”

Several security officers entered the room and surrounded his bunk, one presenting a pair of handcuffs. “Put your hands behind your back,” the officer directed, and the patient, not quite knowing the consequences, did as he was told. Cuffed and secure, they led him out of his room for the first time. The lighting was different in the hallways; he had to squint to make out what was in the shadows.

Déjà-vu came over him – he’d been in buildings like this before, except the feelings had been different. More negative. So far, in his current self, he’d felt nothing (except perhaps curiosity). This did not disconcert him; rather, he took it in stride, and wondered why some of the staff had such strong reactions to him, when he couldn’t even remember how to hate them in return.

They guided him onto the elevator, where he saw labeled floors. His was floor number 8: Research & Containment. Why would they want to research him, or contain him? He’d done nothing wrong, and his activities were no different from anyone else’s. He didn’t know why they’d waste their time watching him waste away in a stark, white room.

They took him to floor number 4, where, not quite thinking about it, he managed to swipe a paper clip off a waiting room table without the notice of security.

“Right in here,” said the guard who’d presented him with handcuffs. He led the patient to a bolted chair in a room identical to his own – except this room did not have the niceties of a bed or a toilet. The chair faced another chair, in which he presumed his “visitor” would be sitting. They sat him in the bolted seat and strapped his chest to the back with a set of chains he hadn’t noticed them carrying.

He didn’t know long he waited. He was used to staring at walls, staring at the floor, staring at his hands, or the light fur on his arms and legs and chest. He imagined once upon a time he’d been quite muscular, but now his body worked against him in the most devious of ways, wasting away into nothing.

That’s why you have the paper clip, his mind whispered. Insurance against your own failures.

The door opened.