I awake in a softly lit room with a pair of familiar faces looking down at me. My parents, I realize as I push past the fog inside my head. On one side my father towers over me in a suit, overlarge and grim with generous sprinklings of salt throughout his dark, wavy hair. On the other stands my less intimidating mother. She holds my hand, a worried expression on her normally bright-eyed brown face.

She’s changed her hair. Her famous curls were only a little past her ears when I last saw her at Christmas. But now they’re nearly to her shoulders. Surprising, but not really. Her hair and make-up team have been after her to put in extensions for years.

“I like the hair,” I tell her, projecting on instinct, even though it feels like my throat is made of sandpaper.

“Oh, baby, you’re okay!” she says, her thick Texas accent nearly giving out with emotion as tears spring to her eyes. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” I assure her. “Are you okay—?”

I break off, wincing when I try to reach over to pat her hand.

“She is in pain. You will give her something for this pain,” my father says to someone I can’t see over his shoulder. His voice, like him, is cold and commanding.

“Papa, I’m fine. But what is this?” I ask, squinting down at the small, white object taped to the back of my hand. There’s a long length of thin tube coming out of it, and my eyes follow the tubing only to squint even more when I see… “Is that an IV bag? Why am I on an IV?”

I look around and see Chang, one of my father’s longtime personal security guards, standing in front of a closed door. But it’s not my door. It’s made of pale wood—not dark maple like the one in my bedroom. And though the room is large and well-appointed with pretty vases and a variety of plants lining the shelves of its peaceful blue walls, it is definitely not mine.

“Is this a hospital?” I ask my parents. “Why am I in a hospital?”

Dad looks away from me like it’s all he can do not to flip out.

Mom keeps her eyes focused on mine, gripping my non-IV hand tightly as she says, “A group of hunters found you washed up by the side of a river in Kansas. Maybe you fell in or…” her voice catches and she doesn’t complete that thought, before finishing with, “Anyway you hit your head bad and you were very lucky those hunters found you…”

This time her voice doesn’t just catch, it gives out as tears fill her eyes.

“Oh, Mom, I’m okay,” I say, squeezing her hand right back. “Please don’t cry.”

“Look at you worried about me when you’re the one in the hospital! We could have lost you!” She shoots my dad a vicious look, her honeyed Texas accent throatier than usual as she repeats, “We could have lost her!”

Her glare surprises me even more than waking up in a hospital bed. I don’t understand. My parents normally operate at an unnatural setting of sickeningly sweet toward each other. But right now, it looks like my mother wants to kill her husband of thirty years.

“Oh no, Papa,” I say. “Did one of your enemies…?”

“Nyet!” my father answers viciously. “If this were the work of an enemy we would be discussing his death right now.”

Okaaaay…that response was a little over-the-top dramatic. But that’s my dad—especially when it comes to his family. “So then why is Mom so upset?” I ask him.

Instead of giving me an answer, my parents exchange a troubled look that I like even less than their angry ones from earlier.

“Mr. Rustanov, if you don’t mind…” a voice says from behind my father’s wide back, “Perhaps it’s best if I explain.”

A nebbish man with thinning hair appears after taking a few steps to move around my 6’5” father who’s been blocking him from my view.

“Hello, Layla, I’m Dr. Messnick,” he says squeezing into the small space remaining beside my father.

“Hello, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” I answer, my High Media training kicking right back in, despite the circumstances.

“I wish it could have been under better circumstances. You’re in Dallas Memorial Hospital, Layla. Two days ago, you were found unconscious by the side of a river in the Kukunniwi Woods of Kansas. Based on the amount of water pumped out of your lungs, we believe you might have fallen into the river and been knocked unconscious, eventually washing up on shore. In any case, we airlifted you here. When you first arrived, you were confused and disoriented, presenting with a severe traumatic brain injury. We immediately placed you in a medically induced coma to relieve the swelling on your brain. How do you feel?”

“Foggy?” I answer with a wry smile. “But no pain. You must have provided me with some exceptionally good drugs. Thank you.”

“Actually, we’re only giving you acetaminophen for the pain. Technically speaking, other than the hit to your head, there’s no evidence of any other excessive physical trauma. You did have quite a few skin contusions when you came in, but they’ve healed quite nicely while you were in your induced coma. For this reason, we believe they might have resulted from your time in the river as opposed to a human factor.”

I translate his words to mean that though I was found bruised and battered by the side of the river, it was the river they think must have done the battering, not another human being.

“Oh, well that’s a relief,” I answer, shining a grateful smile at the doctor. Then with a conscious thought toward keeping my voice pleasant and level, I ask my parents, “Are there any theories about how I ended up beside a river in Kansas?”

“We’re not sure,” Mom answers. “You were wearing hiking boots when they brought you in, plus a t-shirt and shorts, but—”

“Excuse me? Hiking boots?” I say as if the mere idea is a foreign concept—because it is. I don’t think I’ve ever owned a pair of boots that didn’t come with either cowboy or stiletto heels in my life. And though my younger sister, Alma, keeps trying to get me to go hiking with her, I’m not one for that or any other outdoor activity involving bugs or—I shudder—nature.

“Well, that explains it then. I was obviously kidnapped and dragged into those woods,” I only half-quip to my parents. “I must have somehow fallen into the river during my escape.”

“This is what I believe as well,” my father says with a nod as if that’s decided.

“Or,” my mother says, throwing us both exasperated looks, “you went camping.”

I come as close to snorting as I ever have since undergoing High Media training. “Oh, Mom, don’t you think it’s more likely I was kidnapped?” I ask with a teasing smile.

“Kidnapping isn’t anything to joke about,” my mom answers. “Especially with your mama.”

She’s most likely right about that. But I’m getting more and more alarmed by the second, and alarm isn’t on the list of my “brand qualities.” So, I keep my voice light as I add, “Also, if I was going to give camping a try, why would I do it in Kansas of all places? That’s a non-flyover state, so I would have known going in that if a huge bug tried to carry me off, I wouldn’t be able to call in an emergency drone.”

It’s just another joke. But for some reason, my words makes both my parents freeze.

Something’s wrong, a strange voice growls inside my head, and I sniff, because it smells like… yes, it actually smells like my parents’ scents have been altered by some quality I can’t quite pinpoint. For the worse.

“What is it?” I ask, my on brand smile wobbling.

But neither of them answers. Leaving Dr. Messnick to say, “Ah, could you perhaps tell us the year, your full name, and your age?”

I tell him the year and follow it up with “Layla Valeriya Rustanov. I’m 27 years old,” I answer.

Concerned looks are immediately exchanged all around. This can’t be good.

“Wrong answer?” I ask.

Mom squeezes my hand again, her eyes beyond sympathetic. “You’re right about the year. But…”

“You are 28 now,” Dad informs me, finishing my mother’s sentence as he so often does. “You moved to Wichita and took an internship with the Department of Children’s Services in January.”

“I moved to Kansas for a public sector internship?” I repeat.

“Da,” my father confirms, his expression careful, as if he’s dealing with dynamite. “You lived there with Gracie without your guards.”

My mom clears her throat, before adding, “It was only supposed to be for three months, but then you decided to take a full time job there.”

“I left Drummond without my guards,” I say, hardly able to comprehend the words as they come out of my mouth. Because why would I ever move from Drummond to take a public-sector job in Kansas? Also, I like my play cousin, Gracie Nakamura just fine, but didn’t she just drop out of business school? Why would I choose her, of all my contacts, as my first roomie?

“Da,” Dad answers again in his native Russian.

“I don’t… Why would I…?” My high media training fails me and I’m at a loss for words. “I don’t remember any of this,” I confess, my voice totally off brand and weak.

My parents both stare at me, their expressions different versions of stricken. My father’s face has statued over—a default mode he often uses when he’s upset but doesn’t want anyone to know. My mother’s face isn’t nearly so cloaked. Tears fall unchecked from her huge brown eyes. And their scents…. it’s as if I can smell their upset.

“Maybe we should start by asking what you do remember, Layla,” the doctor suggests. “What month do you think it is?”

“I believe it’s…,” I stretch my mind to recall the last date I can remember, “…sometime in January.”

Again, my parent’s exchange a look.

Then Mom says, “Honey, it’s June.”

“June?!” I repeat. Media training wars with emotion as I try to process the time loss. Six months. I’ve lost six months of my life.

“Okay, well…” The doctor’s eyes raise and go to the side, as he consults his bioware, then he says, “You’re scheduled for another medical scan in a few minutes, but I’d like to take a quick look at your eyes the old-fashioned way, if you don’t mind.”

“Yes, that’s fine,” I answer, my voice now much weaker than it was when I first woke up.

The doctor takes an old-fashioned pen light from his white coat pocket and shines it directly into both my eyes. “Your pupils are in good order, but I’m not sure where to go from here. I’ll have to consult with a few of my older colleagues. Usually, the bioware is a good indicator of what happened during an amnesic episode, but in this case…”

“I don’t have bioware installed,” I finish for him, my resting smile defaulting to wry.

But I must not be doing that great of a job of masking how I really feel, because the doctor’s voice becomes extra gentle as he says, “Tell me…what is the last thing you remember?”

I strain, thinking out loud… “I was…at my boyfriend’s apartment…” I cut my eyes to my father. “You haven’t met him yet, Papa, but I think you’ll like him. He’s a doctor, and he’s kind and smart. We were…we were talking about him coming home with me for my birthday in March to meet both of you.”

I look up at Mom. “Did that happen?” I ask, pitifully desperate for the answer to be yes. I need something—anything—to make sense right now. “Did you meet him?”

My parents exchange yet another cryptic look before my mother says, “Yes, we did meet him, baby. And he was very nice.”

“I thought he was a fine young man. A good match for you,” Dad adds, which for him is the highest praise when it comes to the guys I date.

But before I can ask another question the doctor says, “Ah…there are some other things we should discuss about your current condition, Layla. Perhaps we can talk alone?”

“You think you can kick me out of my daughter’s hospital room?” Dad asks, staring down the doctor with his infamous cold grey gaze.

“Papa, please stop!” I say, throwing a tight smile, at my huge Russian father. “He’s only trying to help.”

“Kicking parents out of a daughter’s room is not my definition of ‘help,’” my father informs me, crossing his arms over his large chest.

Instead of responding or getting in an off-brand argument with my father, I tell the doctor, “It’s alright. Whatever you have to say to me you can say in front of my parents. We’re very close.”

“Are you sure?” the doctor asks, eyeing my father warily.

Fear fizzes in my stomach as a new thought occurs to me. Maybe when the doctor said I didn’t have any other signs of physical assault he hadn’t accounted for sexual assault.

“Yes, I’m sure,” I answer. Because if I was kidnapped, and if they did somehow manage to do something bad to me, then even I might not be so judicious about holding my father back.

“You will tell us what you know. Now,” my father says to the doctor, his voice hard as nails.

Dr. Messnick gulps and seems to brace himself as he says, “Layla, you’re very lucky to be alive after your fall into the river. And…so is the baby you’re carrying. You’re pregnant.”

I stare at him. Wondering if I’ve heard wrong. Not comprehending…

“Wait…WHAT?” I hear my mother say beside me. It’s a fairly accurate verbal summary of everything I’m feeling. And then my father begins to curse in Russian.