"Why not?"
"I... forgot."
She processes this with serious consideration. "That's silly. Everyone knows their name."
"I don’t." My voice comes out rough.
"That's what Mama says." She takes another step closer, tilting her head. "You're the man who fell down by the tree."
"Yes."
"Mama says you're hurt."
"I am."
"Does it hurt a lot?"
I look at her. Really look at her. She can't be more than three years old, and she's standing in a barn with a stranger her mother warned her to stay away from. She should be terrified. Instead, she's looking at me like she’s truly concerned I’m hurt and can’t remember my own name.
"Yes," I tell her honestly. "It does."
"Mama can make it better. She's good at fixing things."
Something tightens in my chest. "Yes, she helps me."
"I see her coming here." She gestures with the rabbit toward the barn door. "I'm not supposed to come here."
“Why did you?”
“I wanted to see you.”
"Your mother will be upset."
She shrugs, unconcerned. "What's your favorite color?"
The question throws me. "What?"
"Your favorite color. Mine is yellow." She plucks at her dress. "And pink. And purple. But mostly yellow."
"I don't know."
"How can you not know your favorite color?"
"I don't remember anything."
She cocks her head at me. "Nothing?"
"No."
"Do you remember your favorite food?"
Food. I try to reach for it, searching through the blankness. Do I have a favorite food?
Nothing comes. Just emptiness.
"No," I say.
But even as I say it, something flickers at the edge of my mind. Not a memory exactly. More like a sensation. Warmth. The smell of tomatoes and garlic. Fresh bread.
