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He took his first breath and choked on the scent of burning leaves.
Visions flashed through his head—a clock, a beating heart, green scales, a toothy smile. He recognized none of them. They merged into a flickering golden sphere, unmistakable even in its abstract imagery—the world on fire.
The flames winked out.
Alone in the dark, he sucked in his second breath.
A breeze kissed his skin, chilling him through. In the distance, children laughed. A woman screamed, "Get down from there!" and a man's deep voice called, "Hotdogs! Fresh hotdogs!"
He had no idea where he was. He had no idea who he was. That terrifying truth had him curling more tightly into a fetal position.
Bits of knowledge bloomed. Stray thoughts. Funny he could remember the way leaves smelled when they were set on fire. How the musk of decay filled the air until woodsy smoke overpowered it. He remembered that in parts of the world where the trees went dormant in winter, some people burned leaves and some people bagged them. He knew fall was the season after summer, and that winter came next, bringing snow and a filthy coating of gravel on the sidewalks. He recalled that road salt was hell on your car's paint and rotted the undercarriage if you didn't clean it regularly.
But he couldn't remember his name. He had no idea where he was or what day it was. Newborn and helpless, he couldn't even cry. The tears wouldn't come.
Open your eyes. Instead, he squeezed them shut. What would happen if nothing looked familiar?
A hard surface cradled him, and the wind reached up and under it, snaking through his clothes, making him shiver. A bench? Hard, narrow, slatted, and cold as hell. So open your eyes and look at it, coward.
No. He couldn't.
"Hey, mister."
He flinched at the closeness of the voice and at its innocent loudness.
"You okay, mister?"
Open your eyes and talk to the kid. You are not okay. But the dark felt safe, and some base instinct told him to ignore the voice. Then he could curl up on his bench until he remembered his name and everything else that went with it.
I don't hide from my problems.
It was the first clue to who he was. The hell if he'd let anyone call him a coward. Even the demons in his own head.
Mindful of the light that wanted to spear through his cornea and into his brain, he cracked one eye open, widening it when the shape in front of him sidestepped to block the blinding sun.
As senses went, vision was the real bitch. There was no denying the reality of his situation now. To his best guess, he was in a park, sprawled across a listing wood bench. Overhead, tall oak trees, still stubbornly holding on to their curled brown leaves, failed to block the worst of the late-afternoon sun, which was slanting low over a duck pond thirty yards away. A boy stood in front of him, holding a sandy pail filled with acorns. Brown curls framed his round face and wide green eyes. "Are you okay?" he repeated.
He ignored the question and ducked his head, squinting at himself, then wished he hadn't. He didn't recognize the lanky frame curled up on the bench. Or the khaki pants, ripped out on the left knee. Or the green T-shirt and lightweight brown jacket. He commanded the legs to move, to stretch out and dangle over the end of the slats and onto the grass. They obeyed. That settled it, then. This body belonged to him, even if he didn't remember it.
