Prologue

PROLOGUE

1 YEAR AGO

Max

People are speaking and machines are beeping; I try to focus on the words that are being said, but they slip through my mind like water through cupped hands. I wish they would go somewhere else to talk, and maybe turn that beeping off on their way out the door. My body feels unbearably heavy, like the earth's gravity is exerting extra force on me. I'm so tired, I don't think I could open my eyes even if I wanted to.

The voices rise, like they're coming closer to me. I try to open my eyes with the intention of asking them to leave, and discover that I can't actually move. Panic cuts through my fatigue like a shot of pure adrenaline. My arm jerks upward— yes! movement! — and somebody grabs me, placing my arm back down on the bed.

"Max. Open your eyes," a soft, firm and unfamiliar voice says.

I'm trying , I tell them, but no words come out. I try to move any other part of my body but it feels like I'm stuck in quicksand. A low moan echoes through the room, startling me. It takes me several long, fraught moments to realize it's coming from me.

"Max," another voice says, and I could weep to hear it. Marcos is here. Things can't be that bad if my best friend is here. "Max, open your eyes."

I open them, but immediately regret it. The lights are too bright and the room lurches. I gasp, and vomit rises in my throat. I squeeze my eyes back shut and feel moisture on my lashes. Am I crying? Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong.

"Max." The other voice is back, the firm one; the one I don't know. It frightens me—the presence of this unknown person. If I open my eyes again, will I see them or Marcos?

"I'm here, Max," Marcos says from my right side, and I feel a hand touch my arm. He's always had an uncanny knack of reading my mind and knowing what I need. This time, I open my eyes slowly: cracking them to let a narrow strip of light in and then working up to more. I turn my head to the right so my friend is the first face I see.

The room is still spinning and my eyes are still watering. Marcos looks wrong: his brown skin is pale and waxy, and his eyes are red. There is something fundamentally wrong but my brain isn't able to make the connection. I feel sick. I feel like I might be dying. I want to ask Marcos if he's okay.

A jingling noise catches my attention and I turn my head. There are two police officers standing in the corner of the room, watching, hands resting casually on their belts. I stare at them, uncomprehending. The beeping noise becomes more insistent and my foggy brain finally comes to my aid— hospital, you're in the hospital .

"What—," I croak, and am startled by the sound of my own voice and the rawness of my throat. It feels like I've been screaming.

There is movement to my left but I can't look away from the cops. Their presence is more frightening than confusing. I've never broken a law in my life, and yet here I am with no memory of how I got here and there they are, standing sentinel at the door. If I wasn't already crying, I'd start now. A hand touches my arm and I flinch, violently.

"Easy now, love. Just checking your IV." I turn my head with difficulty and see a young black woman. She has kind eyes and she smiles at me.

"Where am I?" I ask her, even though I've already ascertained I'm in a hospital. I can't fucking think .

"You're in the Emergency Room," she says, and there is another jingle of keys as one of the cops moves forward. She glances up at him and back to me. The smile is gone.

I turn my head, trying to get a read on how many people are in here. As soon as I see a face, I lose it—my mind is a fucking sieve. My heart is pounding so hard, I'm surprised nobody else can hear it. Breathing hurts, and my vision swims. The panic blurs everything, voices and machines bleeding together in one nonsensical wave. I raise a hand, trying to find Marcos. What side of the bed was he on?

"He's scared." A voice cuts through the room, angrily, and I turn toward it, gratefully.

"Marcos," I mutter, and the raw sound of my own voice terrifies me anew. His hand catches mine, warm and solid. If I were able to think clearly, I might realize what this means. Marcos doesn't like touching people; he wouldn't ever hold my hand if he could avoid it.

"Max, you need to calm down. Take a couple deep breaths. Everything is…you're okay, all right? But you need to ca lm down," Marcos says, voice firm. I tighten my grip on his hand, anchoring myself, and do what he says. Deep breath in, hold, deep breath out. Repeat.

"Where are we?" I ask, because I've already forgotten.

"The hospital," he says. "Take another deep breath."

I do. It doesn't dispel the heaviness in my limbs or the sluggish pattern of my thoughts, but it does help the room stabilize. There is a man in a white coat standing next to Marcos; I don't remember him being there before, and wonder if I've hallucinated him.

"Son, can you tell me your name? Your full name?" He asks, and I recognize his voice as the one from earlier.

"Max Kuemper."

"What day is it?"

"It's…it's Thursday. No, Friday. Is it Friday?" I suck in a sharp breath, confused and afraid. I close my eyes and think . "It's Friday. I had hockey practice because there wasn't a game."

Yes! That's it! You must have gotten hurt at hockey practice. Opening my eyes, I look at the doctor, who nods. "Yes, it's Friday. Can you remember what you were doing after hockey practice?"

One of the police officers takes a step forward and I stiffen. My thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind. Do I have a concussion? "Hockey practice? I—I don't…where am I?"

"You're at the hospital," he says patiently. "You had hockey practice today. What did you do after that, can you remember?"

"No," I whisper, and glance over at the cop. "I can't remember. I'm sorry."

"That's okay," he tells me calmly. "Can you remember how you got here? "

I stare at him. "No, I don't… I don't remember. I don't remember."

My chest constricts, choking me and making it impossible to breathe. Something is really fucking wrong with me. Marcos' grip on my hand is almost painful. I hope he doesn't let go.

"That's all right, Max," the doctor says, slow and quelling. I look over at the cops again, and he catches it. "You're not in trouble."

"Okay." I can't stop glancing over at the police officer who keeps creeping closer to the bed. "What happened?"

I look around the room for the nurse with the kind eyes. I want her to come back and the police to leave. Marcos looks ill, and I wonder if we shouldn't be here for him. He looks like he could use a hospital right now.

"Max," the doctor says, drawing my attention back to him. He leans over the bed, partially obscuring the officers and keeping my focus on him. "You and your friend went to a party tonight, after you had practice. At the party you ingested a drug, a benzodiazepine known as Rohypnol. It's a very strong tranquilizer; even a small dose can cause amnesia, loss of consciousness, and an inability to control your muscles or inhibitions."

"I didn't…I didn't take any drugs," I tell him, even though I don't know this for sure since I can't remember. "I don't do drugs. I play hockey ."

"No," he says, eyes steady on mine. "You didn't take it. You're not in trouble, remember? You haven't done anything wrong."

"Okay," I say, nodding and looking at Marcos who is staring resolutely at the wall. His jaw is clenched so tightly I can see a muscle ticking in his cheek. "What was the drug? I'm sorry. I can't remember, I'm sorry."

"Rohypnol," he repeats slowly, enunciating each syllable. Ice trickles down my spine and settles deep in my stomach. I recognize that name.

"Isn't…isn't that a date rape drug?" I ask, and Marcos flinches like I've struck him. "Sorry."

The police officer moves all the way to the end of the bed now. He's an older guy, grizzled and grey-haired, with a barrel chest and a stern expression. I'm illogically frightened of him and his presence in this room.

"My name is Officer Reynolds, Mr. Kuemper." His voice is as rough as sandpaper, and is exactly what I would have expected.

"Hi," I say, trying to be friendly. I've forgotten his name as soon as he gave it to me. Why is he here? I look back at the doctor, whose name I've also forgotten. "What…what happened?"

"You're at the hospital. You were at a party on campus and you were given a date rape drug called Rohypnol. You're safe here," he says, and waits for me to nod before he continues. "Max, Officer Reynolds needs your permission to take your clothing."

"My…clothing," I repeat slowly. He nods. "Okay, that's fine. Can I go home?"

"Not just yet. We would also like your permission to perform a sexual assault forensic exam?—."

"I don't…I don't think that's necessary. I just want to go home. You can have my clothes," I remind him, desperately. I look at Marcos, hoping for him to back me up. He's still staring at the wall, lips pursed and skin drained of color. He looks like he needs to sit down before he falls down .

"Mr. Kuemper," Officer Reynolds' raspy voice draws my gaze back to him, "it is necessary. Somebody gave you a drug that severely incapacitated you, and they did it to take advantage of you. This exam might help us find the person who did that."

"I don't…" I don't understand. There are too many people, and too much information for me to follow. I feel sick, and all I want is to go home. "I don't want to do it."

I don't even know what it is. But I'd rather die than let Officer Reynolds perform any sort of sexual assault exam on me.

"Max," Marcos says, jostling our linked hands. "Max, listen to me. I'm sorry, I'm really fucking sorry, but you need to do this, okay? Somebody roofied you, do you understand? Nobody does that unless they want to hurt someone. We need…we need to know if somebody hurt you. And if they did, this exam will give us evidence to find them. Okay?"

His voice breaks and he looks away again, as though staring directly at me is too difficult. I feel terrible, knowing I'm the cause of his pain. Very slowly, I loosen my grip on his hand and slide mine from his. We need to know if somebody hurt you, he'd said, but what he'd meant was we need to know if somebody raped you . No wonder he looks like he's going to vomit. I gaze around the room, wanting to ask who is supposed to do the exam. I've already decided it will be a no if it's one of the cops.

"Who…"

"Patrice is a sexual assault nurse examiner," the doctor says, indicating the nurse. "She'd be the one doing the exam."

"Just you and I, love," she says, voice low and meant for me alone. "You can tell me to stop at any time and that will be it. You run the show. "

"I don't remember anything," I plead, but I'll remember this .

"I know," she says, "I know."

In the end, I agree to it. The nurse clears the room and draws the curtains so nobody walking by can see inside. I look away when she pulls out the kit and starts prepping; I don't want to know any more about what's happening than I need to. When she's ready to get started, she comes to stand by the bed and puts a hand on my head, rubbing a gentle circle into my scalp with her thumb.

"You have the right to revoke consent at any time during the exam; do you understand?" I nod. "If you want to stop, we stop."

"Okay."

When we're finally allowed to leave, a nurse wheels me out front in a wheelchair while Marcos fetches the car. He's stiff and angry as he helps me into the passenger seat, and my exhausted mind can't figure out a way to bridge the gap. Instead, as we leave the hospital parking lot, I lean my head against the window and close my eyes. I feel truly terrible—like somebody beat every inch of me with a baseball bat. Every muscle in my body hurts, and the missing hours from my memory grate on my nerves like sandpaper. I don't even remember going home after practice.

"Marcos?"

"Yeah?"

"What party were we at?" I look over at him. He's gripping the steering wheel so tightly I can see the whites of every single knuckle.

"Brandon's," he responds tightly. "He plays baseball with me."

"Oh." I don't remember Brandon, but I don't know many of Marcos' teammates. There is a sour smell in the vehicle and I crinkle my nose. Is there spoiled food in the back? "What's that smell?"

"You threw up on the way here. I had to pull over on the side of the road. You…you were all limp and kept losing consciousness. I was worried you were going to choke."

Shame floods my system like molten lava. I'm thankful for the darkness of the car to hide my burning face. I add this to the list of things that hurt from tonight: my best friend having to make sure I don't choke on my own vomit.

"I'm really sorry," I tell him. "I'll detail the inside for you, clean everything up."

"Don't you apologize," he says, practically spitting the words out. "Don't you ever apologize to me. None of this is your fault, do you hear me? You have nothing to be sorry for."

He lapses back into a tense silence after his outburst. I lean back against the window, enjoying the chill against my skin. I want to get home, burn all my skin off in a scalding hot shower, and then sleep for a week. It seems incredible to me that life will continue tomorrow; that I'll play hockey and do my homework, and pretend that nothing has changed. I don't know if I can do it.

"Marcos," I mumble, eyes closed and forehead still pressed against the glass. "We don't have to tell anybody about this, right? Like…Coach Mackenzie, or anything?"

He's silent for long enough that I worry what his answer is going to be. When he does speak, it's in a careful monotone. "I already called your coach."

Lifting my head, I look over at him. He glances at me, grimacing.

"I didn't say anything specific, but I told him you were ill and that you wouldn't be able to play this weekend." He pauses, flexing his hands on the steering wheel. "I'm sorry. I know I should probably have waited for you, but I was kind of freaking out. And then all the shit the doctor said…I just figured you'd take a couple days to rest."

"Yeah," I agree, because my body is sore enough that a couple days of rest does sound good. "But I meant…do I have to tell Coach that something happened? Or…submit the lab results?"

The muscle is ticking in Marcos' jaw again, and he rubs a palm over his face. "I don't know. I'll figure it out though, and let you know. Don't worry about any of that; I'll handle it."

"All right." Looking out the windshield, I notice we're almost home. "What exactly happened? At the party. Do you know?"

He sighs. "I can tell you what I told the police. I…I drove us there and, like I said before, it was my teammate's party, so there was a group of baseball guys that flagged me down right when we walked in. You went and got us drinks, and then a little bit later—like, not even thirty minutes later—you told me you needed to find a bathroom because you didn't feel good."

I'm watching him as he speaks, simultaneously wishing he would stop talking while also needing to hear more. I listen carefully, attending to every single word, hoping that something will jar loose in my mind and I'll remember for myself.

"Brandon pointed you up the stairs to the bathroom, and I let you go alone, and that was the last I saw of you for a bit." We pull into the parking lot and he turns off the car. He sounds defeated. "It wasn't like I was standing there watching the clock, you know? I have no idea how much time passed. I talked to some of the guys, had a drink with a girl from my English class, and then someone asked if I wanted to play beer pong. I told them I couldn't, because I was driving, and then…I realized it had been a while since I'd seen you. So, I went to find you."

He stops, hands resting in his lap and eyes staring sightlessly through the windshield. I wait until it becomes clear that he isn't going to offer anything more up on his own.

"And then?" I prompt. He sighs.

"And then I found you. You were upstairs, in the hallway. At first, I thought you were drunk. You were trying to walk, but kept…slumping against the wall and bumping into stuff. I had to grab you to keep you from falling down the stairs. You…I don't know how to explain it, Max. You were so out of it. It was the scariest fucking thing. You couldn't string two words together and were barely able to stand on your own. I practically carried you to the car. Which…which is how I noticed that your clothes were fucked up."

"Fucked up?" I ask quietly.

"Yeah. The buttons on your shirt were done up wrong, and one of your belt loops was ripped off. It…it looked like…well, I don't know. I just had a really bad fucking feeling about it. It looked like someone had redressed you. And that's what I told the hospital and they called the police and…well, yeah."

"Oh," I say, and pull off my seatbelt. Turning away, I reach for the door handle. Hearing the story didn't make me remember anything; in fact, I think I feel a little worse.

"Max," Marcos' soft voice has me looking over my shoulder, door ajar and one leg already out of the car. "I'm really sorry. I messed up, and I'm really, really sorry."

"It's not your fault," I tell him truthfully. "Whatever happened…it's not your fault. "

He nods, though he doesn't look convinced. I head inside, feeling stiff and exhausted. It takes me a ridiculously long time to get my clothes off, with my shaking hands and weak arms. Cranking the water in the shower to as hot as I can stand, I step inside and prop myself up against the wall, forehead against the tile. Then, hoping that the sound of the water drowns out the noise, I cry.