Page 227 of The Fall

“I’m going to be direct with you, Torey, because I think you need to hear this. This is important: if you are having ongoing issues after the hits to your head you’ve taken, especially with your history, that could be a sign of something very, very serious.”

Ongoing issues. Hits to the head.Serious.

Am I losing my mind? Have Zolotarev’s hits scrambled me? Is this what losing it feels like?

The questions spiral through me, each one feeding the next. My hands are shaking, and I hold them flat against my thighs to still them. Dr. Lin’s eyes track the movement. She’s cataloging everything.

This is what doctors do. They watch for tells. They wait for cracks to show.

She’s waiting for me, but I can’t speak. My mouth opens, closes.

“I don’t…” I’m flailing. What can I say to get through this?

She lets discomfort fill the space. She knows how to drag the truth to the surface by watching what isn’t said.

“What would it mean, um—” I swallow. “What would it mean if things were… serious?”

What am I asking her for? A medical basis for deja vu? What would I even call this? An itch under my skin that says I’ve been here before? When? That’s impossible?—

But these flickers, these memories, this deja vu; they come from somewhere, right? And before I came to Tampa I dreamed of Tampa, and?—

What am I even thinking? That I… saw the future? Dreamed the future? Slid through time? That’sinsane. Saying—even thinking—that kind of shit gets you benched permanently, getsyou shipped off to specialists who speak in hushed voices about post-concussion syndrome and career-ending brain injuries.

Impossible; people don’t see the future. People don’t slide through time.

I wrestle down another wave of unease and keep trying to follow the thread back to the beginning: Zolotarev in the slot, that cheap shot behind the play, then?—

“Serious how?” Dr. Lin’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. “Are you experiencing something specific, Torey? Something beyond the typical concussion symptoms?”

Her eyes are steady on mine, patient but probing. She’s giving me an opening, a chance to tell her everything.

The words pile up behind my teeth—I think I’ve lived this before, I know what you’re going to say before you say it, everything feels like an echo—but I can’t let them out. Can’t risk it.

“So...” I clear my throat, try again. “Hypothetically. If someone had... recurring issues. After multiple hits...”

She shifts on her stool, and the wheels squeak against the linoleum. “That would depend on the nature of the issues.” Her tone remains carefully neutral, but something sharpens in her gaze. “Memory problems, mood changes, difficulty concentrating can all be part of post-concussion syndrome. But there are other possibilities we’d need to rule out.”

Other possibilities. Breathe. In through my nose, out through my mouth. “Everything feels...”

Wrong. Shifted. Like stepping into a photograph I’ve already taken. Like repeating a word until it loses its shape.

How do I explain something I don’t understand? How do I admit that reality feels upside down, that I’m remembering things that haven’t happened, that I’m pretty sure I’m losing my mind, but that I’m more afraid of losing Blair? Every nerve ending screams at me to run, to get out, to escape thisconversation. But where would I go? And what would I be running from?

Well… the truth. Because if I lose my mind, I lose Blair. I lose this life we’ve built together. I loseeverything.

I can’t be crazy. I can’t.

...hazy.”

Telling her what’s really happening, or about the sound of shattering glass in my skull, about the sensation of living these minutes and moments twice, is a risk I cannot take. The cost is too high. It’s the end of everything. “That’s probably the best way to describe it. The hit, and last night. It’s all hazy.” I force my gaze to meet hers, holding it steady when all I want to do is look away, to hide. I can’t let her see the fault lines spreading inside my head.

“Can you be more specific?” Dr. Lin’s voice is soft. She doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink.

“I’m a little slow on the uptake.” I shrug. “Like my brain’s trying to get out of first gear. Pretty standard, right? After a hit like that?”

She sets her tablet aside and wheels her stool closer. Her fingers are cool against my temples as she checks my pupils with a penlight. Left eye. Right eye. The beam cuts through my vision, leaves afterimages dancing.

“Follow my finger.” Side to side. Up and down. My eyes track the movement while my mind races ahead, calculating what normal looks like, what answers keep me on the ice and in Blair’s arms. Focus on the finger. Don’t let her see the way the room tilts. Normal players have normal reactions. Normal players don’t feel like they’re watching themselves from outside their own bodies.