voice brought her back to the present, and she shook her head to reengage her brain. She dropped the blanket over the man’s shoulders.
What were the odds this man would possess the same unusual mark as her father?
Did this stranger hold the answer to her father’s disappearance?
She had called him Casper. Dr. Ashley Drager. That was what she called herself.
The nurses were gone from the room. He huddled into the blanket she had placed over his shoulders. Never in his life could he remember being this cold. It was as if his bones were solid ice and would never stop leaching frigid water into his veins. Her hands, small, soft, yet determined, eased him back onto the raised head of the gurney.
“What’s the last thing you remember?” she asked.
Her dark blue eyes seemed a safe place to be. They exerted a trusting nature, an open mind, almost a pleading for information.
The name she called him...Casper...seemed to ring true, but neither was he positive that was correct. He searched his mind for an answer to her question and all there was to draw upon was a blank well of darkness.
Casper’s stomach clenched. He couldn’t remember. What was the last thing he could clearly recall? What had he been doing to end up here? He pulled the blankets down that covered his chest to examine his injuries. An IV was in his left hand. He touched it lightly, the fluid running into his veins warm and soothing. He tugged at the large patches on his chest, but Ashley grabbed his hand and pulled it down as if he were an intemperate child doing something he shouldn’t. In truth, it’s how he felt—young, uncertain. He honed in on her face for approval with each movement he made. Gingerly, he touched his jaw with his fingers. Several mounds of swollen flesh protruded from his skull in abnormal places, and even the slightest touch caused sharp spindles of pain to spread throughout his head. He settled against the pillow.
“I can’t remember.” Was this how his voice normally sounded?
Dr. Drager pulled her stethoscope from her pocket. “Let me see if I can find a reason why you’re having trouble remembering. Your body temperature is very low. That could be part of it, but I’m doubtful that’s the cause. You’ve sustained several blows to your head and that could be the answer right there, but we need to be sure you don’t have any bleeding inside your skull. We’re going to send some lab work and I’m going to get a CT scan of your brain.” She laid the stethoscope against his chest. The normal chill he expected was warmer than his skin. “Sorry about the rude awakening. Your heart was in a lethal rhythm and the only quick way to fix that was with a little electricity.”
Little?
He rested a fist in the center of his chest as counter pressure against the remnant of pain from that dose.
Clearly, there were things he did remember. He knew what things were—particularly in this room. A pen. A stethoscope. An IV. He could identify the contraption in the corner—a rapid fluid infuser. The device they’d used to get his heart rhythm normalized—a defibrillator. He knew what a doctor was. What a nurse was. He knew how to put an IV in and could easily recall other medical procedures—his fingers itching to perform them. Muscle memory existed intact. Did that mean he was in the medical field?
Casper just couldn’t remember anything about himself or his circumstances. How was that possible? Was he in the medical field? Was he a nurse? A doctor? A medic? Is that why he almost felt comforted by these surroundings?
Dr. Drager reached behind her and grabbed something from the metal stand that sat next to his bed. “This is your license. At least, we assume it is. Does this help strike up a memory?”
He took the plastic ID from her hand. Scanning the details didn’t jar anything loose. He shrugged and offered it back to her.
“You can keep it. We have all the information we need from it. You also had this picture with you,” Dr. Drager said.
He took it from her hand and glanced at it only briefly. Someone in a graduation gown he didn’t recognize. When he caught the doctor’s gaze, she looked exacerbated, one eyebrow hiked higher than the other—almost as if prompting him for...what?
Must be frustrating to have a patient show up without any answers when you’re trying to help them.
Reaching around, his muscles stiff and sore, he placed the items in the back pocket of his jeans. He riffled through his front pockets and withdrew a wadded piece of paper. Once he’d evened out the page—it contained an address.
“Perhaps we should give that to the police, see if it’s important,” Dr. Drager said.
“No!” The strength of his conviction surprised even him.
She took a step back, the flash of fear quickly recovered by her well-practiced, calm demeanor from handling volatile patients.
Why am I so adamant about hiding this information? I don’t even know what it means.
“Casper—” She paused, perhaps changing her mind about the direction she wanted to take the conversation. “I’m trying to help you.”
The blood pressure cuff squeezed his arm. “I know. I’m very thankful.”
Dr. Drager was headed out of the room when she suddenly turned on her heel and faced him. “Where did you get your tattoo? Do you recall anything about that?”
“What tattoo?” Casper asked, the words spilling before he could search the void that was his mind.
“The one on your back. Right between your shoulder blades. It’s a medical staff superimposed on a biological biohazard symbol.” Ashley walked across the trauma room to a box on the wall.
A sharps container.
How could he know that and not know any personal details of his life?
“The symbol is exactly like this one.” She tapped at the box to staccato her point. There was pain in her eyes as she looked at him. They glistened under the fluorescent lights.
He clenched his fists. Heat surged into his body, but not a welcome feeling physically normalizing his body temperature.
What he felt was anger. Unidentified. Smoldering.
And for her, he felt an ache in chest. Something akin to sorrow.
What’s happening to me? What do these emotions have to do with anything?
“I feel...” He wanted to scream. Cry out. This was so maddening. “Do you know me?” he finally asked her.
She dropped her hand from the box on the wall. “I don’t know you, sir.”
“But we’ve met before...haven’t we?” he asked, his heart almost begging for some sort of connection, a lifeline for his sinking psyche.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever met you,” she answered. Her eyes locked on his as if she was trying to bolster her certainty. “However, the photo you
