Page 7 of Lupo

"Maybe," she says, but she doesn't sound convinced.

I press the heel of my hand against my forehead, struggling to think past the pain. "Hospital."

Her expression closes off. "No, I can't take you to the hospital."

"Why?"

"I’m sorry, I can’t. You're not dying." She doesn't sound completely certain. "You need rest. Time to heal. I’ll take care of you."

"Who? I?” The words come out harsh, angry. I don't mean them to, but the fear is overwhelming. "Can’t remember."

"I know." Her voice softens slightly. "I understand you can’t remember. You have a head injury. Pushing yourself won't help. Your head, the injury is serious. Remembering might take time."

Time.

How much time? What if it never comes back?

I look at her, really look at her. The wariness in her posture. The way she's positioned herself close enough to help but far enough to run. Not close enough for me to grab her.

There's fear there. Of me.

"You?" I ask.

"Isabella."

The name doesn't trigger anything. "Why help?"

She's quiet for a long moment. "Because you needed help and I’m here."

"Dangerous?” I gesture at myself.

"Yes, you might be dangerous." She dips the cloth back in the water and wrings it out. "I have a daughter," she says quietly. "She's three. She stays in the house. You stay in the barn. If you go near her, if you threaten her in any way, I'll make you leave. Do you understand?"

I nod, even though the movement makes my head throb.

She moves closer again, carefully pressing the damp cloth against my forehead. I flinch, and she pauses.

"I need to clean the wounds," she says. "To prevent infection."

I close my eyes. Her touch is gentle despite her obvious fear. She works in silence, cleaning dried blood from my hairline and from my temple. When she reaches a particularly tender spot, I hiss in pain.

"Sorry," she murmurs. "This one is deep. It should have stitches."

"Can you?"

"No." She pulls back, studying the wound. "It'll scar."

Scar. Will I have other scars? Do I know what scars feel like?

I don't know. I don't know anything.

"What do I call you?" Isabella asks. "Until you remember your name."

I don't have a name. I don't have anything.

I shrug, unable to come up with an answer.

She's quiet for a moment, then stands, picking up the bowl. "I'll bring you food. And more water. You should rest as much as you can."