"We need to sign the divorce papers," Gavin said. My hand tightened on the bedrail until the plastic creaked. "Divorce?" I asked. My voice came out thin, foreign in my own ears. Gavin looked at me like I had three heads. "We separated months ago. I—" He stopped and forced a calm that didn't reach his eyes. "Yaya is pregnant." "Yaya?" The name floated by and landed wrong. I blinked. "Who is Yaya?" "Your sister," Gavin said, flat. "Lin Yaya. She's carrying my child." Dr. Keller stepped forward with a clipboard and no bedside drama. "She's awake and answering questions," he said to a nurse. His eyes kept flicking to my pupils. "She's coherent for the record." "Coherent?" I repeated. I tried to pull my sheet up with both hands and realized my fingers were numb with cold or with disbelief. "Then answer me. Did I marry you? Do I know you?" Gavin's mouth tightened. "You were my wife. Legally. We were married for five years." "Five years," I said, counting from a blank. The numbers slid off the emptiness in my head. "I don't remember a wedding. I don't remember a life with you." "That's because of the coma," Dr. Keller said quickly. "Selective retrograde amnesia is not common after prolonged coma, but it's possible." "Possible," I echoed. My voice was small. "So tell me what I did. Tell me who I am." Gavin folded his hands on his lap