14. Kaci

Iwake to the smell of bonfire in my hair and the sheets tangled in my legs. I roll over and Hunter's sitting on the side of the bed watching me.

"They found a car."

I sit up quickly and only wince a little at the pain in my head. The wound has been healing well, and it no longer hurts every time I move.

"Is it mine?"

Are there any clues as to who the hell I am?

"Not sure, but it's near to where we found you. It's getting towed into town this morning, and they'll run the plates."

Then I'll know who I am.

I should be excited. I should be happy, but the only thing I feel is fear. What if I don't like what I remember?

I reach for Hunter, and he shuffles toward me on the bed and pulls me into his arms, hugging me tight, knowing before I ask that it's what I need. The reassurance of his body against mine.

He breaks away and brushes the hair off my face. There's sadness in his expression, and maybe he doesn't want this time together to come to an end either.

"I'll go get the eggs for breakfast."

Hunter leaves to tend to the chickens, and I pull on some clothes and head down to the kitchen to make coffee.

My list of things I know about myself sits on the table. It's gotten longer over the last few days, but there's still nothing concrete.

I take up the pen to add that I drive and I own a car possibly.

The pen leaves an indent in the page. I give it a shake and scribble on the back of the page, but it's out of ink.

I try the top kitchen drawer, looking for another pen, and when I don't find one I push open the door that leads to Hunter's study.

The curtains are drawn, and I switch the light on. I haven't been into this room before, and I wonder if I should be in here. There's a small table with a laptop and a transmitter radio. A shelf has folders of papers and more military photos.

It feels personal, like I shouldn't be here. I'm just looking for a pen, I tell myself. I won't touch anything else.

I scan the table, but except for the laptop and radio the surface is bare. The desk has two drawers and I pull open the first one. Two pens roll around alongside a packet of drawing pins and some sticky notes.

I grab one of the pens, and as I pick it up, a letter underneath it catches my eye.

It's addressed to Hunter, and the writing looks familiar.

I pull out the envelope and stare at the handwriting. My stomach bunches in knots, and a familiar feeling curls at the edges of my memory.

Taking the envelope, I head back to the kitchen where I left my notebook. I place the envelope on the table next to the list of things I know about myself.

My eyes dart back and forth between the handwritten address on the letter and my list.

The handwriting's the same. It's my handwriting.

To be sure, I fold back the front page of the notebook and copy out the address on the clean sheet.

It's exactly the same.

What the heck is a letter addressed to Hunter in my handwriting doing in his desk?

Nausea roils in my stomach, and I clench my gut as something flickers in my brain.

A memory of me hunched over a kitchen table writing the address onto this envelope. But it's the feeling that accompanies the memory that has me doubling over in pain.

A heavy wave of grief washes over me so forcefully that I cry out. My eyes squeeze shut, and I grip the letter in my fist and hold onto the table as grief and despair tear through my heart.

Something terrible happened.

It takes me a few breaths to calm my racing heart.

The letter has been opened, and I pull the single page out of it and hold it up with trembling fingers.

To Sergeant Adams,

I'm trying to find out what happened to my brother.

Brother.

The word tears through my heart, and I cry out.

Ben.

The name bursts into my head along with a face. A laughing young man hugging me goodbye at a bus station, his army issue backpack sitting proudly on his shoulders.

Ben

Sixteen years old with a bloody fist and a toothy grin. Putting his arm around me and asking if there's anyone else he needs to take out for me after he punched Conner Dilworth for cheating on me.

Ben

Twelve years old and wrapped in a comforter as we fight over the last pieces of popcorn in the bowl Mom gave us to share while we watched the latest Star Wars movie.

Ben

Five years old and holding my hand as we lie in bed too excited to sleep because Santa Claus is coming tomorrow.

Ben

The casket being lowered into the ground wrapped in an American flag. Not being able to see the body and not being able to believe he was gone, that my twin was really gone.

Ben, my twin, the other half of my heart.

I cry out, sinking to the floor as the memories rush back in.

Ben enlisting and then Mom getting sick. The hospital visits, her treatments, the hours spent in sterile rooms.

Ben coming back for her funeral, promising to get out to come home to me. Just one more tour…

The telegram arriving that didn't tell me any details. Just "killed in action."

The information I couldn't find out about his death. His entire unit gone that day except for one person, the only survivor of the IED. Sergeant Adams.

Hunter Adams.