Page 17 of Lupo

He's quiet for a moment. "I don't think so, but she seemed to think it’s better than ‘the man in the barn’.

"Then that's what we'll call you." I look back at him. "Until you remember who you really are."

"And if I never remember?"

If he never remembers, what then? Does he stay here forever? Does he become someone new?

Does he become mine?

The thought terrifies me.

"You'll remember," I say with more confidence than I feel. "You just need time."

I leave before he can respond, locking the barn door behind me and walking back to the house.

Inside, I check on Elena. She's sprawled across her bed, rabbit clutched in one hand, completely at peace.

I sit on the edge of her mattress and brush the hair from her forehead. She stirred something in him today. I saw it. The way he looked at her. The gentleness in his voice.

Either he's a good man underneath whatever happened to him, or he's very good at pretending.

I don't know which possibility scares me more.

I kiss Elena's forehead and whisper, "What have I gotten us into, baby?"

She doesn't answer. Just snores softly, safe in her dreams, while I lie awake and wonder if the man in my barn is going to save us or destroy us.

Chapter 7: Lupo

The next afternoon, Isabella appears at the barn door with a bundle of clothes in her arms.

"Elena's asleep," she says without preamble. "You can come in now. But be quiet."

I've been waiting for this since last night, anticipating it with an eagerness that surprises me. The need to be clean feels almost desperate. To wash away the blood and dirt and the smell of hay that's soaked into my skin.

Standing is easier today. Still painful, but manageable. I make it to my feet without help, though I have to brace myself against the wall for a moment when the barn tilts slightly. The dizziness still comes and goes.

Isabella watches, ready to catch me if I fall. She doesn't offer help. I appreciate that.

"Come on," she says, and I follow her across the yard.

The house is small. Cozy. I catch glimpses as we move through, a worn couch, children's toys scattered on the floor, photographs on the wall that I don't look at too closely. It smells like bread and figs and something floral. Safe. Lived-in.

Nothing about it triggers a memory.

She leads me down a short hallway and opens a door. "Here’s the bathroom. The shower's there behind the curtain. The towels are clean." She sets the bundle of clothes on the closed toilet lid. "Take your time. Just... be quiet and don’t wake Elena."

"I will."

She hesitates in the doorway, and for a moment, I think she's going to say something else. Instead, she just nods and closes the door, leaving me alone.

I stand in the small bathroom, looking around. It's dated but clean. Blue tiles, a white sink, a mirror above it that I'm not looking at yet. The shower is a simple stall with a curtain.

I peel off the ruined shirt first. It's stiff with dried blood, and removing it pulls at the cuts and bruises covering my torso. I drop it on the floor. It's beyond saving anyway. I reach for the buttons of my pants.

My hands know what to do. Unbutton, unzip, push the fabric down. The movements are automatic, muscle memory that doesn't need conscious thought.

When I'm naked, I finally look at myself.