MirrorWorld

“I don’t know my own name,” I tell her. “Or yours.”


She pauses, turns to me, and offers me a bloody gloved hand. “Doctor Kelly Allenby, at your service.”

I shake her hand. “I’m Crazy.”

“With a capital C,” she says, the phrase old hat.

My mind freezes up for a moment. How did she know? Before I can ask, she turns to me and says, “Winters filled me in. She’s the woman you met. Jessica Winters.”

“Who is she?” I ask.

“Not my place to say.”

“You’re avoiding my question,” I tell her.

“Winters will brief you later,” she says.

Brief me. Definitely military.

The ambulance sways from side to side for a moment. I hear the engine revving loudly. We’re moving fast. But the siren isn’t wailing.

“I wasn’t talking about Winters,” I say.

She smiles at me. I can’t see her lips behind the mask, but her eyes crinkle on the sides. “Short-term memory seems to be fine.”

“Please.”

She turns back to stitching. “Do you know what the amygdala is?”

“A region of the brain,” I say, though I have no idea how or why I know the answer to this question.

“Two regions,” she says. “On either side. The size of almonds. Part of the limbic system. Not very big, but they regulate a few functions that are applicable to your situation. Memory and fear. Typically, a condition like yours is the result of Urbach-Wiethe disease, which destroys the amygdala. The result is a complete lack of social, emotional, and physical fear. But you’re not like a sociopath. You still feel other emotions, like empathy, sadness, and joy, and you understand concepts of right and wrong, though in your case that sense of moral judgment is a bit exaggerated.” She glances my way. “I read your file.”

“You said ‘typically.’ Are there other ways to destroy the amygdala?”

She pulls the line tight and ties a knot. Scissors appear in her hand and she cuts the line. She turns away from me to put the needle and thread beside the discarded knife. “Brain trauma could do it, but it would have to be one hell of a coincidence to destroy both amygdala on either side of the head without turning you into a vegetable.”

“But it’s possible?”

“Anything is possible,” she replies, taking her bloody gloves off and tossing them atop the tray. The mask and glasses follow. “But that’s not what happened to you.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you’re sitting here having a conversation with me instead of watching The Price Is Right every day, or just plain dead.”

“My file is pretty detailed,” I say.

She turns back around and gives me a tight-lipped smile, the kind a mother might when her child is being naughty while simultaneously adorable.

“I’m not adorable,” I point out.

She laughs. “Far from it. It’s just … it’s good to—”

The ambulance sways hard to the side. Tires squeal.

Allenby leans forward and opens the door a crack. She gasps. “What’s happening?”

“They’re everywhere,” says the man behind the wheel. “I don’t know if I can find a way around them.”

“Can we stay here?” she asks. “Wait for them to pass?”

“I don’t think they’re going anywhere anytime soon.”

“What’s happening?” I ask. I turn my head back, but the upside-down slice of the world beyond the ambulance is just blue sky.

“Just relax,” Allenby says, patting my shoulder. “We’re fine.”

I push myself up, inspect the expert stitching on my abdomen. “I wasn’t worried.”

Allenby is so entranced by what’s happening outside, she doesn’t notice me moving. I slide up behind her, angling for a view.

“We should be okay,” the man says, “unless they get hungry for ice cream.”

Ice cream? “What is it, a Little League parade?”

Allenby jumps, placing a hand to her chest. “Bloody hell. You shouldn’t be up. I still need to cover that.”

I push past her. The man in the front seat is short but fit. The kind of guy who’s got energy to spare and can eat entire pizzas. But he’s not young. Despite the full head of dark hair, the crow’s-feet framing his eyes and flecks of white in his goatee give away his age.

When the driver swerves again, I look up.