GINA WILKINS - The Stranger in Room 205

The sound of it seemed to encourage her. “How do you feel?”

The only appropriate phrase he could come up with in answer seemed inappropriate for mixed company. He settled for, “Not great.”

“I don’t doubt it. You have several very painful injuries, but the doctor said you’ll be fine. Things are rather hectic here tonight because of a school bus accident, but it’s a decent little hospital. They’ll take good care of you.”

“Where…?” He swallowed to clear his thick voice, then tried again. “Where is this hospital?”

“Edstown,” she answered.

“Ed’s town?” he repeated blankly. “Who’s Ed?”

“I’m sorry, I thought you…it’s Edstown,” she said again. “Edstown, Arkansas.”

“Arkansas.” He repeated the name of the state slowly, trying to make it mean something to him. “How did I get here?”

“I found you lying in a ditch near my house. You had been severely beaten—perhaps left for dead. I called an ambulance and accompanied you here. Do you remember any of this?”

Actually, there were quite a few things he didn’t remember—but he wasn’t ready to get into that. Not with the word “police” still echoing hollowly in his mind.

She was studying him with a frown. “Maybe I’d better go get a doctor….”

“No.” He tried to hold up a hand to stop her, but both his arms seemed to be strapped down, the left wrist in a splint or bandage of some sort. “Wait. Don’t go yet.”

For some reason, he didn’t want her to leave. He didn’t want to lie here alone, hurting and fighting the confusion that was steadily threatening to overwhelm him. He was sure everything would come back to him once he’d had a chance to rest and recover for a few minutes. Considering the circumstances, it was no wonder he couldn’t even remember his…

“Your name,” the woman was saying. “You haven’t even told me your name.”

Tom? Dick? Harry? Nothing. Not a glimmer of recognition. How the hell could he forget his own name? he wondered in mounting frustration.

She seemed to go suddenly tense. “You do remember your name, don’t you?”

He pictured her reaction if he admitted that his mind was achingly blank. She’d probably panic. She’d start calling doctors and nurses…maybe that chief of police she’d mentioned. The medical staff would rush in, poking and peering and treating him like some kind of freak, and who knew what the cop would believe. “Of course I remember my name.”

She waited.

“Sam,” he said, seizing the first moniker that came to him.

“Sam?” Her smooth brow wrinkled again. Obviously, his hasty answer hadn’t satisfied her.

He groped for a surname. Nothing. His gaze skimmed the room as if searching for an answer. Bed. Chair. Floor. “Wall,” he murmured. “Er…Wallace,” he amended quickly.

He didn’t know why he was so reluctant to admit the truth. Just tell her he couldn’t for the life of him remember his name—or anything else that mattered. Actually, maybe he should be worried. He could be suffering brain damage. Something a doctor should look into immediately. Could be bleeding from the brain. God only knew what else. But something kept him quiet. He felt so stupid…he was sure it would all come back to him in a minute. He just needed a little time.

Whoever he was, he apparently believed in handling his own problems in his own way.

“Sam Wallace?” she repeated, a bit doubtfully.

Hell, why not? It would work until something better occurred to him. Like his real name. “Yeah. Sam Wallace. Who are you?”

“Serena Schaffer.”

Serena. It suited her, he decided. “Thank you for rescuing me, Serena Schaffer,” he said.

“I didn’t do that much, but you’re welcome. Now I really should get someone in here. The doctor will want to know you’re awake…and Dan Meadows, our chief of police, wants to talk to you. Just to ask you a few questions about what happened to you.”

The word police made him tense again. He wished he knew why. It was like…an instinct. Something inside him that told him to be very careful. At least until he remembered—

The door opened and a very large woman in a white uniform bustled in, shaking her head and muttering to herself. “What a night. I swear, if that Red Tucker says one more cross word to me, I’m going to snatch him bald-headed. We’re taking care of all those kids the best we can, and he’s out there… Oh, my, he’s awake.”

“Yes, we’ve been talking,” Serena replied.

The nurse nodded. She leaned over the bed and peered into his eyes. “Headache?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“He seems a little disoriented,” Serena added, proving she hadn’t been entirely fooled by his act.

The nurse didn’t look surprised. “That’s to be expected with the concussion. The doctor will be in soon, but they’ve got him running out there now.”

He tried to nod, but went still when his head hammered in protest. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She didn’t smile. “How bad is the disorientation? Do you remember how you came to be here?”

According to Serena, he had been severely beaten. Left for dead in a ditch. “I know what happened.”

“Do you remember the attack itself?”

It seemed safe enough to say, “Not much, I’m afraid.”

“That’s to be expected. Any other memory loss?”

He looked straight into her dark eyes. “No.”

She seemed to believe him. Her pen hovered over the clipboard cradled in her left arm as she asked, “What’s your name?”

“Sam Wallace.”

“Middle initial?”

“None. Just Sam.” The parents he’d just invented for himself weren’t particularly creative. He wondered what his real parents were like. Were they even now looking for him, frantic with worry? Was he being a total idiot not to tell someone what was going on between his ears? The answer, of course, was yes. Still, he didn’t change his mind.

“Birth date?”

As far as he could remember, he’d been born less than half an hour ago. He chose a date at random, finding it mildly curious that he could remember things like names and months and numbers, even though they held no personal meaning for him. “June twenty-second.”

“Yeah? Today’s the twentieth, so that means you’ve got a birthday coming up in a few days. What year were you born?”

Year? He wasn’t even sure what year it was now. He couldn’t remember what he looked like, whether his hair was dark or light or gray—if he even had hair. He didn’t feel old…but he didn’t feel young, either.

Damn it, what was going on here? Why the hell couldn’t he remember?

He groaned.

Serena stood and rested her hand on his shoulder, the gesture oddly protective. “He’s obviously in pain, LuWanda. Isn’t there anything you can do for him?”

LuWanda closed the clipboard. “I’ll get the doctor.”

He was grateful for the brief reprieve. He gave Serena a shamelessly pitiful look. “My head’s killing me,” he said.

She brushed a lank strand of hair off his forehead, her fingertips cool against his skin. So he did have hair. Nice to know.

“I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do for you? Someone I can call for you?”

He thought again of the family that could be searching for him. With a mental apology to them—if, indeed, they existed—he shook his head. “There isn’t anyone to call, but thank you for offering.”

What he really wanted right now was to be alone. A chance to think. To break through the mental barrier that was keeping him from his memories. He was certain that he could do so if he only had the time to work at it a bit…on his own, without disruptions. But as the door opened again and a short, squarely built older man he assumed to be the doctor strode briskly into the room, he knew it would be a while yet before he would be left alone. Now he had only to keep up his pretense until his mind cleared, which he fervently hoped it would do before he had to deal with the police. If the memories didn’t return soon… Well, he would take this one step at a time.