I woke with my cheek pressed to damp earth, sunlight stabbing through my eyelids. I opened them and immediately regretted it. Pain throbbed behind my forehead, intensifying with every ray of light. I closed my eyes again and focused on the forest around me. Birds chirped somewhere in the distance. Damp earth and pine filled my lungs. I didn’t recognize any of it.

When I tried to move, pain spread through my body. I forced myself upright and looked down. Bruises covered my arms and legs. Blood—some dry, some still wet—streaked my skin. Several wounds looked disturbingly like bite marks. My clothes hung from me in shredded strips. I was soaked, though no water surrounded me. Beyond the patch of ground where I lay, trees stretched in every direction.

Where was I?

And how had I gotten there?

I planted my palms in the dirt and pushed myself upright. The moment I tried to stand, my legs buckled. I crashed back to the ground, sending pain shooting through my knees and spine. For a moment, I could only lie there and breathe. I searched my mind for anything—a name, a place, a memory—but found nothing. The pounding in my head made it difficult to think, and the pain spreading through my body made it nearly impossible to concentrate.

Nothing came.

I couldn’t remember what I had been doing, where I had come from, or even how I had ended up in the forest. How had I lost my memory?

A sudden tingle ran up my spine, followed by a tightness in my chest. I couldn’t remember my name. I didn’t know where I came from—or who had done this to me. My breathing quickened. I tried to draw in a full breath, but my lungs seemed to stop working. The thought that I had been beaten or tortured flashed through my mind, and terror surged through me. I screamed, unable to contain my frustration and fear. Pain throbbed behind my eyes and spread through every muscle and joint. I pressed my hands against the ground, willing myself to calm down, but the panic refused to loosen its grip. Seconds stretched into what felt like hours before my breathing finally began to slow.

I lay there, exhausted, forcing myself to think rationally. I needed to find help. There had to be a town or a road somewhere nearby—somewhere people could treat my injuries. But first, I had to answer the question that frightened me most:

Who was I?

Once the panic subsided, I pushed myself to my feet. My legs trembled beneath me, and I swayed until I found my balance. The pain in my head flared, but I couldn’t stay there. I had to move. I glanced down at my battered body. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what had happened to me, but I knew I needed help. In this condition, strangers might mistake me for an addict or someone who had caused trouble. They might not believe me—or they might decide I was dangerous.