Page 26 of The Same Backward as Forward

“Lemon juice,” he replied. I thought of his grocery lists, his incessant requests forlemons.

“Stand up,” I bit out. It was something we were working on every day. He hadn’t managed it without my support yet.

He never stayedupfor long.

“Minim,” Harry said, relishing the word and showing no inclination whatsoever to rise, “a single drop of liquid—such asbourbon.Murdrum, the murder of an unknown person. Apropos, is it not?”

I glared at him. “It’s about to be.”

“Andaibohphobia.” He was getting way too much pleasure out of this. “A fear of palindromes.”

“You made that up,” I said.

“Did not.” He had a good enough poker face that I couldn’t tell whether he was bluffing, so I repeated my order for him to stand up.

This time, he humored me. My hands knew exactly where to lend their support. His body knew how to take it.

“Try taking a step,” I ordered, all business. I prepared myself for a snappy comeback, but the palindrome lover in front of me made a surprisingly drama-free attempt to shift his weight to one foot and lift the other from the floor.

It dragged.

“Grace and beauty was he,” Harry drawled. His was a subtle sarcasm, betrayed more by the words than his tone.

“It’s the head injury.” I didn’t know what kind of damage his brain might have taken from the fall, but that was the conclusion that made the most sense. His legs weren’t burned, and there was no evidence of spinal trauma.

I tried to lower him back down, but Harry resisted. The pale ring around the outside of his deep green iris was more visible some days than others.

“You can take a break,” I told him.

Isawhis pupils expand, black overtaking deepest green like a midnight wave devouring the edges of a white sand beach.

“Show me what’s in your pocket,” he proposed, “and I’ll humble myself by trying again.”

If Harry washumble, I was the Queen of England. “I’m not showing you what’s in my pocket unless yousit.”

He sat. After only a single moment of hesitation, I pulled out the token I’d taken from his wallet.

He stared at it. “Where did you get that?” I hadn’t heard a tone like that out of him since I’d gotten him through the worst of the pain.Brutal. Raw.

“You recognize it,” I said, looking down at the token.

“Where?”That was the kind of demand that cut through the air like a sword made of solid ice.

“Your wallet.” I wasn’t sure why I even told him that, or why I didn’t fight it when he plucked that coin-like disk from my fingers and hurled it, full force, against the wall.

For once in my life, I flinched.

The door to the shack flew inward, and Jackson looked from me to Harry and back again.

Not Harry, a voice in my mind whispered. I couldn’t shake the bone-deep awareness that this wasToby. “You recognized that disk,” I said. “What is it? What do you remember?”

“Nothing.”He wasn’t lying. I knew that, the same way he always seemed to know when I was. “I don’t remember a damn thing, but somehow, Iknow: You shouldn’t have that.”

For the longest moment, I stared at him, trying to stareintohim, trying to tell if any subconscious part of him was starting to remember who he’d been before.

“You can have it,” I said quietly, going to retrieve the token.

“No.”There was that tone again—brutal,raw,desperate, even. “Hide it somewhere. Whatever you do, don’t let anyone else see it.”