I woke up with twelve scars on my left wrist and no memory of how they got there.
The ceiling above me was white and cracked, like a map of a country that didn't exist. I knew this ceiling. I had been looking at it for six months, according to the woman in the white coat who called herself Dr. Drackett. Six months, she said. You've been here for six months. You don't remember any of it. I remembered some of it. Not in lines or sequences, but in fragments—like a photograph...
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