“Then what? He went overboard?” Leigh asked.
“Or was tossed?” Remy offered.
“What about a crash or explosion?” Leigh scratched her wrist. “Could something like that have caused his injuries?”
“Um,” Michael said. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“Was there any debris in the water?” Leigh asked Remy.
“No. None.” Quiet descended and Remy had the sense that their minds were all spinning. “How long will it take his ribs to heal?”
“I googled that when I was in there with him,” Michael answered. “About six weeks to heal completely.”
Six weeks!
“But I’m sure he’ll be gone long before then,” he added.
“And what if his memory doesn’t come back?”
“Call me.”
If the stranger’s memories didn’t return, what were the chances that Michael—who was relying on Google for medical information—would have the know-how necessary to retrieve them?
For the next several hours, the stranger succumbed to a shaking, exhausted slumber.
Leigh and Remy viewed online tutorials that explained how to check a pulse and how to administer CPR. Leigh obligingly played the part of the victim while Remy practiced her newfound knowledge—without actually compressing Leigh’s chest or performing mouth-to-mouth.
When their patient woke in the late afternoon, he was still groggy, but the shivering had finally eased. They brought him more Advil, which he swallowed. And food, which he didn’t. They settled for coaxing him to drink water.
He fell back into a heavy sleep.
The two women ate dinner together but eventually Leigh had to leave in order to get sleep in advance of her early morning.
Remy held the door for her. Beyond, stars punctured the dark sky.
“I’ll be back after work tomorrow to get him in and out of the tub,” Leigh said.
Remy didn’t have enough mental fortitude left to eventhinkabout bathing him. “See you then.”
The night closed around Leigh’s form as she made her way to her car. Turbulent wind rushed over Remy, pressing her clothing against her. She stepped back inside. Like earlier in the boat, she was once again alone with this unknown man.
Just him and her in this house.
She paused on the bedroom’s threshold. Only the light from her lamp illuminated the space.
He cracked one eye open. Then both. “What’s your name?” His scratchy voice gave the impression that speech hurt.
“Remy Reed.”
He didn’t reply.
“And what should I call you?” she asked. “It would be nice if I could refer to you as something other than Sir.” She refused to call him John Doe because wasn’t that what they called unidentified corpses? Naming him John Doe felt like labeling him as a dead man walking.
“Was there a guy in the Bible who got . . . spit out . . . by a fish?”
“Jonah?”
“That will do.”
