Blank card? I feel like I remember reading that in our notes, but it doesn’t help when I no longer have the notes in my possession. And who is she referring to when she says we’ve all heard of it.

“What does it mean? What can you tell me? How do I find Charlie?” My questions tumble out of my mouth and trip over each other.

“That picture,” she says. “Why are you so curious about that house?”

I open my mouth to tell her about the picture in Charlie’s room, but I clamp it shut. I don’t know if I can trust her. I don’t know her. She’s the first one to know what’s going on with me. That could be an answer, or it could be an indication of guilt. If Charlie and I are under some sort of spell, she’s probably one of the few who would know how to do something of that magnitude.

God, this is ridiculous. A spell? Why am I even allowing myself these thoughts?

“I was just curious about the name,” I say, lying to her about my inquiry of the house in the picture. “What else can you tell me?”

She continues realigning stacks of cards, never flipping them over. “What I can tell you…the only thing I will tell you…is that you need to remember what it is that someone so desperately wanted you to forget.” Her eyes meet mine, and she lifts her chin again. “You may go now. I am of no further help to you.”

She scoots away from the table and stands. Her frock bellows out with the swift movement, and the shoes she has on underneath make me question her authenticity. I would assume a gypsy would be barefoot. Or is she a witch? A wizard? Whatever she is, I want desperately to believe that she can help me more than she has. I can tell based on my hesitation that I’m not the type of person to buy into this shit. But my desperation is heavier than my skepticism. If it takes believing in dragons to find Charlie, then I’ll be the first to wield a sword in the face of its fire.

“There has to be something,” I tell her. “I can’t find Charlie. I can’t remember anything. I don’t even know where to start looking. You have to give me more information than this.” I stand, my voice desperate and my eyes even more so.

She simply tilts her head and smiles.

“Silas, the answers to your questions lie with someone who is very close to you.” She points to the doorway. “You may go now. You have a lot of searching to do.”

Very close to me?

My father? Landon? Who else am I close with besides Charlie? I glance at the beaded curtains and then back at her. She’s already walking away, toward a door in the back of the building. I watch her as she leaves.

I run my hands up my face. I want to scream.

Chapter 12: Charlie

When I wake up, everything is clean. No rice, no sausage, no shards of porcelain to cut a bitch.

Whoa! Where did that come from? I feel loopy. She’s got this timed down to a T.

Knock Sammy out, bring her crappy food, knock Sammy out, bring her crappy food.

But this time when she returns, she doesn’t have crappy food. She’s carrying a towel and a small bar of soap.

Finally! A restroom.

“Shower time,” she says. She’s not as friendly this time. Her mouth is a tight line across her face. I stand up, expecting to sway a little. The needle to the neck was stronger than the other stuff they’ve been giving me, but I don’t feel as foggy. My mind is sharp; my body is ready to react.

“Why are you the only one who comes?” I say. “If you’re a nurse, you must work in shifts.”

She turns away, walks to the door.

“Hello…?”

“Behave,” she says. “Next time things won’t go as well for you.”

I shut my mouth because she’s taking me out of this box, and I really, really want to see what’s behind that door.

She opens the door and lets me walk out first. There’s another door in front of me. I’m confused. She turns right and I see there’s a hallway. Just to my right is a bathroom. I haven’t used the toilet in hours, and the minute I see it my bladder starts to ache. She hands me the towel. “Shower only has cold water. Don’t take long.”

I close the door. It’s like a bunker. No windows, raw concrete. The toilet doesn’t have a lid or a seat, just a rimless hole with a sink next to it. I use it anyway.

On top of the sink is a new hospital gown and underwear. I study everything as I pee, looking for something. Anything. There’s a rusted pipe near the floor, jutting out of the wall. I flush the toilet and move toward it. Sticking my hand inside, I feel around. Gross. A piece of the pipe has corroded away.

I go to turn the water on in the shower in case she’s listening. It’s a tiny little bit of metal, but with some effort I’m able to detach it from the wall. It’s something, at least.

I carry it in the shower with me, holding it in one hand while I wash. The water is so cold; I can’t stop my teeth from chattering. I try to clench my jaw tighter, but my teeth still rattle inside my head despite how much I try to still them.

How pathetic am I? I have no control over my own teeth. No control over my own memories. No control over when I eat, sleep, shower or pee.

The only thing I feel I can control is my eventual escape from wherever it is that I am. I clutch the pipe in my hands with all my strength, knowing it could be the only thing that gets me back some form of control.

When I walk out of the bathroom, it’s wrapped in toilet paper and stuffed in my underwear, a simple pair of white panties she left for me. I don’t have a plan yet; I’ll just wait for the right moment.