couldn’t be dead.
She was running, escaping the hospital.
Voices shouted behind her, but she just ran faster.
She was alive. She didn’t care what anyone said.
As she burst out onto the sidewalk, the wind slapped her in the face. The icy sting made her quivering lips stretch into a wobbly smile. The cold of the concrete beneath her feet reinforced the conclusion.
Yes, she was alive.
Two men dressed in dark uniforms rushed from the same door she had exited and headed toward her. They shouted for her to stop.
She ran—darted between the moving cars as horns blared. She ignored them.
She had to hurry, had to run faster.
If they caught her…it would be bad. She didn’t know why, but she sensed that her life depended upon her getting away from this place.
So she didn’t stop. Not for the cars. Not for the shouts behind her.
Not for anything.
SHE COULDN’T RUN anymore.
She had to stop.
Cutting to the right, she stumbled to a standstill in an alley. Sande leaned against the brick wall.
Should she call herself Sande?
She thought of the toe tag clutched in her right hand. Maybe.
The alley was deserted, as far as she could tell. She peered toward the end, with its pockets of darkness. Nothing moved. There was no sound, other than the street noises that filtered past the cars parked along the curb and the trees lining the sidewalk.
A Dumpster accompanied by a pile of boxes sat a few yards away. She could hide there for a little while…until she figured out what to do next. Until she wasn’t so tired anymore.
Was there someone to call? Would Sande Williams be listed with directory assistance? If she had an address she could start there.
According to the newspapers she’d seen in the newsstands she’d run past, she was in Chicago. If Chicago was home, wouldn’t some emotion or memory stir? Shouldn’t she feel a connection?
Shouldn’t she feel something?
Other than tired. She needed to sit down. Her feet were freezing. Her hands were cold. She shuddered. Her whole body was chilled.
The date on the newspaper had said October 29. Made sense, she supposed, that the temperature outside was cold. It was almost November. Thanksgiving was in November. Snow sometimes came in November. It was supposed to be cold.
How could she remember all those everyday details and not know the first thing about herself? Not her name, her age, her address.
Nothing.
Sande pushed away from the wall. The towering brick buildings on either side of the alley kept the sun at bay. The shadows deepened the farther into the alley she ventured.
She could climb into one of those larger boxes and curl up in a ball to stay warm. That would help. Maybe she’d even put one on top to create a sort of shelter the way homeless people did.
Anticipation trickled inside her.
Was she homeless? A kind of sadness filtered through her. Did Sande Williams have anyplace to go? Any family? Friends? Or was she completely alone?
She couldn’t worry about that right now. Staying warm took priority. Survival had to come first.
She reached for a box. It was just what she needed.
“Hey! That’s my box!”
Sande jerked her hand away. Lurched back a couple of steps. “I’m…I’m sorry.”
The stringy-haired lady who had scolded her stepped from the shadows beyond the pile of cardboard boxes. Her heavy coat made her look like an Eskimo. “I don’t mind sharing,” the Eskimo woman said as she swiped her hands against the ragged jeans she wore. “But you should always ask first.”
Sande nodded. “Sorry.” She hadn’t meant to invade anyone else’s territory. She was just so tired. Cold and lost. And she was scared. Terrified.
The woman’s eyes narrowed as she assessed Sande from forehead to feet. “Where’s your clothes, girl?”
Good question. Wearing a white bedsheet certainly didn’t count. “I’m not sure what happened.” Might as well tell the truth. “I woke up like this.”
The woman pursed her lips thoughtfully. She didn’t appear that old, just looked a little haphazard and world-weary. Her jeans and coat were old, worn-out.
“I probably got something you could wear.”
Sande almost refused her generosity. Clearly, the woman had very little in the way of assets. Sande hated to take anything from her. But at the moment, she was pretty much desperate. Beyond desperate, actually.
Why couldn’t she remember anything?
“I’d appreciate that,” she said, thankful for the assistance.
The woman motioned with her right arm. “Come on.”
She dug her way through the piles of boxes until she reached what might have been the center. Sande realized then that the boxes were stacked in such a way that they created a refuge.
She followed the woman into the cardboard sanctuary. “What’s your name?” her new friend asked.
The toe tag clutched in Sande’s hand came immediately to mind. Though she hesitated before giving that answer, nothing else occurred to her. “Sande Williams.”
“I’m Madge,” the older woman said, “but you don’t look like a Sande to me.”
Sande didn’t know what to say to that statement. The name didn’t set off even a flicker of recognition within her. And other than her height and weight, she didn’t know anything about how she looked. Fear surged inside her once more. How could she not know her own hair color? Or eye color?
She grasped a strand of her hair and pulled it in front of her face. Blond. She had blond hair.
“You from out of town?”
Sande shook off the disturbing questions churning in her brain and nodded, then, with resignation, wagged her head. “I really don’t know.”
Equal parts suspicion and sympathy stirred in the woman’s eyes. “Something wrong with you, girl?”
“Maybe.” Sande shrugged. “I’m not certain. I woke up in a—” she cleared her throat “—in a hospital.” She swallowed hard. “Dressed like this.”
“You don’t know how you got there?”
Another
