He came back. I heard his footsteps approaching, slower this time, careful. A soft sound—something being set down on the floor beside me.
"Water."
"I don't—"
"You need to drink. You're dehydrated. I can see it in your skin, your lips, the way your eyes aren't focusing."
I opened my eyes.
He was kneeling in front of me. Older—fifty, maybe, or fifty-three. Built like someone who'd been strong once and was still strong, just softer around the edges. His hair was grey, cut short. His eyes were grey too, or maybe blue, or maybe something in between. He was wearing an apron with the bar's logo on it, and his hands were rough and scarred and steady.
"I'm Matt."
"I'm—"
I stopped.
What was my name?
Lilah?
Bunny?
Something else?
Something I'd forgotten?
"Bunny."
The word came out before I could stop it.
"My name is Bunny."
He didn't laugh. He didn't raise an eyebrow. He didn't look at me like I was crazy, even though I was sitting on his floor at six in the morning with dried blood on my hands and a name that didn't belong to any adult I'd ever met.
"Okay, Bunny. Drink the water."
"I don't—"
"You don't have to trust me. You don't have to talk to me. You just have to drink the water. Your body needs it."
I looked down at the bottle. Plastic. Unopened. The cap was still sealed.
I picked it up.
My hands were shaking.
I twisted the cap.
The water was cold.
I drank.
He didn't ask questions.
Not then. Not while I drank the first bottle, or the second, or while he helped me stand and walk to the back room, where there was a couch and a blanket and a pillow that smelled like fabric softener. Not while I sat on the edge of the couch, shivering, while he draped the blanket over my shoulders.
"You need to eat."
