1. Switch

1

SWITCH

T here may be a plush beige sofa, equally beige and plush carpet, and drapes that shimmer in the early-afternoon sunlight, but nothing changes the fact this is technically a hospital and I'm still technically fucked.

Not much better off than I was when I woke up in the hospital three weeks ago, which is why the club found this state-of-the-art, bougie-as-fuck rehab center. Vex, who is apparently my best friend, found the place. My dad said King, the club president, agreed to pay for everything. But this place is too rich for me. I don't fit in. Can't get a beer or a smoke except what members of the club are sneaking in for me.

"I asked how you feel about your friends rallying for you like this."

I look up at the woman asking the question.

Dr. Katarina Polunin's thick brown hair is pulled up in a weird braid that seems to loop around her head twice. Big gold earrings hang from her ears as she peers at me over her glasses.

Sitting back in the comfortable chair, I think about what I want to say. "It's…complicated. I'm…" Words don't come quickly. I have to think deeply about what I want to say sometimes before I can grab hold of fragments of it.

Dr. Polunin waits.

"Grateful," I finally blurt out. "Grateful."

"But?" she asks.

"It's overwhelming. They keep sending me…" I wave my phone as if that explains everything.

"They are in regular communication?"

I nod. "Photos. Videos. Lots of…" Fuck, the word escapes me again. "You know…" I gesture, typing with my thumbs on my phone. "Just tell me the fucking word."

"Messages?"

"Yeah, messages. And I'm struggling to remember what they tell me. I had a whole conversation with Spark, who I remember from before."

Before has become synonymous with any time occurring a decade or more ago.

The past ten years have disappeared.

"Even the most well-intentioned friends can hinder progress by constantly trying to force your memory to return by asking you about it. What did Spark tell you?"

I put my phone down, rest my elbows on my knees, and tug my hands through my hair. "I don't know. I remember he was…here, but I can't remember shit of what he said."

"You have two types of amnesia, Theo. The first is the more commonly known and understood. You've lost a portion of your past. The second is rarer and less known about. Anterograde memory is our ability to turn day-to-day events into memory. For example, I go on vacation, and I'm able to come home and tell my friends what I did each day. You have clear symptoms of anterograde amnesia because you can't recall what happened yesterday."

"How do I fix it?" I ask.

Dr. Polunin smiles softly. "Let's back up a little. You have two types of memory. Non-declarative memory. This is the part of your memory that has enabled you to shower and get dressed and would probably allow you to jump on your motorcycle and ride without having to relearn what all the switches and levers do."

The thought of my bike gathering dust almost chokes me. I spent five weeks in hospital and have been here just a few days. Winter's coming. Leaves swirling in the wind outside are a reminder that snow'll soon make biking that much harder.

"It's sometimes called procedural memory," she continues. "Because it mostly applies to tasks that are repetitive."

"That part I can do. I tied…" Fuck, what's the word for the things on my feet? "Sneakers… Then wondered why I can remember how to do that, but not remember what my house looks like."

"That's declarative memory. Recollection of facts or specific events, usually unique. And within that, you have episodic memory and semantic memory. Episodic is more autobiographical, like my example of remembering what happened on vacation. Semantic memory is more factual. As you said, you remember you own a house…but you just can't remember where it is or what it looks like."

I sit back in the chair and straighten my jeans. "How do I fix it?"

Dr. Polunin puts down her pen. "You are an incredible human being, Theo. I've read your records. In fact, I'd go as far as to say you are a miracle. Given the severity of your injury, I think it's a marvel you are not only alive but communicating with me like this in my office. You have speech and mobility."

"Yeah, but words." I leave it there.

She nods. "I know you have some challenges with retrieving the right words right now. But with your injuries, I'm shocked you even have that."

"Not enough," I manage.

"You are very early in your traumatic brain injury journey. Very early. It's unreasonable to expect faster progress with a TBI. This could be a multi-year journey."

"Years?" I don't want years. I want my fucking life back. One that comes without blinding headaches and nausea. One that gives me my skills back as a medic. I barely remember my first year out of basic medic training, let alone everything I learned since. "My parents won't go home…Every day. Here. Waiting. Mom is…exhausted."

"The brain is our most misunderstood organ. A heart is mechanical. It beats. Blood pumps. But the brain is still a mystery in many ways. You are in the absolute best place in the country to increase your chances of recovery. Do everything the staff asks of you. Make it your life's work to attend every physio and rehab appointment. Speak to the therapist to work your way through these emotional issues. Keep your stress levels low by following all the programs we have in place for you. You need to give your brain every possible chance of recovery. You're in safe hands, Theo. I promise you."

"Want to be…normal…me…again."

"I understand that. But you have to understand, there is no guarantee you will be who you were again. There is no guarantee you won't be either. Some people come through TBIs and are exactly the same. Most people don't lose language capacity because it's a neural pathway skill versus something memory based. But otherwise, there are huge differences. You are about as lucky as they come."

There is a knock on the door.

"My reminder that I have other clients outside, Theo. But as your primary care doctor, I will see you three times a week to review progress."

I nod and stand. "I appreciate it, Doc."

"It's Doctor Polunin. And thank you."

"Whatever you say, Doc." And I smile at her.

She shakes her head. "There is one last thing you could do for me."

My hand is on the door handle to leave. "What's that?"

"It would be very useful if one of your friends could fill in the blanks of what actually happened to you that night."

"I came off my bike. Likely a hit-and-run."

Dr. Polunin runs her tongue over her top teeth. "We rarely see clients like you, Theo. But I promise you won't be treated any differently because of your…affiliations. I looked carefully at your records. I looked at the images. I looked at the explanation of how you were found. The photograph of your helmet and bike. The statement from your"—she looks down at a piece of paper—"president."

"And?" I say.

"The description of how you were found, which side you were lying on, does not match the damage on your helmet."

My stomach drops. I've been told but struggle to recall what really happened. My head aches as I try to remember what King told me. Club business, maybe? That I was a hero. That comes in a lot of messages. Was my crash staged to make it look like a hit-and-run? That might have been it. But the details blur, like I'm travelling at two hundred miles an hour and my memories are standing at the side of the road as I whizz by.

Dr. Polunin raises her hands in the universal symbol of surrender. "Theo. I don't care. I don't care what you did. My only concern is to give you the absolute best treatment I can. I want you to recover from your brain injury every bit as much as you do. I will not cease until I figure out every possible form of therapy that will help. But it starts with the foundation that I know exactly how your brain was injured so I don't overlook something that could be vital later."

I've been around the club long enough, even in my limited memory, that I know we never talk about club business outside the club. And while every single part of me believes there is sincerity in what Dr. Polunin says, I couldn't risk telling her, even if I knew.

I tip my chin at the laptop on her desk. "It's all in your files, Doc. Happened like they said."

"You're putting a lot of faith in your friends."

"They're my brothers. That's what we do."

"I will see you on Thursday, Theo."

I head back to my room and pick up my swim shorts. I'm not allowed to lift weights. Too much strain. Everything has to be gentle. But I sure as fuck need to get my heart rate up. I strip and look at myself in the mirror, comparing what I see to the images I've been sent of myself from the past year. My messy dark blonde hair is longer on top and shorter on the sides. It was shaved on one side for surgery, and I just evened it out, so I have the fixings of a fauxhawk growing back. There are pinkish-red scars, still healing, where my skin was peeled back so my skull could be plated back together. I'm a little softer around the middle than before. Time in a hospital bed will do that to you.

Mom told me I always worked out. Apparently, I'd bang on about how it was good for my mental health. Even when I was deployed, I worked out every day. I'm going to believe my past self and do what I can to use exercise to get better.

I'm covered in tattoos. Some I remember getting, like the four-leaf clover on my thigh I got in Mexico. Some I've figured out their importance, like Iron Outlaws and biker tattoos. Others, I have no idea. There are a set of initials on my shoulder, a date on my arm, and a poor quality tat of a fish blowing a kiss on my hip. Without context and history, they mean nothing to me.

I pull on my shorts and head to the rehab center's large pool on the ground floor. Its restful blue and white tiles and piped-in ocean sounds make it feel more like a spa. A lifeguard stands watching. I suppose the risk of drowning is high when you could black out in the water.

This place is wild. Depending on the severity of your injury, you can walk around the place like it's a fucking cruise ship. All-you-can-eat buffet. Pool. Massages, mandatory and optional. But in between, there are scheduled therapies and treatments, like speech pathology. Makes me feel sick that rich fuckers get all this and everyone outside these walls relies on an utterly broken health care model.

And yet, here I am. Using it anyway. Because why would I turn down the best medical treatment money can buy?

There are chaise lounges around the outside, but no one is sitting on them. On one are two towels and a black eye patch. A woman is in the pool, obviously a strong swimmer. She has that natural technique, where her head is in the water for a stroke, then turns away to suck in air on the next.

I grab a towel from the rack and put it on a lounger of my own. My body aches and pulls as I struggle to lift my T-shirt off. My left arm and hand don't work properly, but I don't want to think about that now.

As I turn to walk to the pool steps, the woman is climbing out. She's in a utilitarian black one-piece, short but curvy as fuck. Thick thighs, solid ass, and snatched waist. It takes her a minute and the use of a railing to stand. Her gait is unsteady as she limps to her sun lounger. As I lift my gaze, the scars begin. Over her arm, her shoulder. She lifts one of the towels to her face, then looks around as she lowers it.

"Shit," she says as she spots me, immediately dropping the towel and scrambling for the eye patch. She snaps it on over her wet hair, but it's too late. I already saw the scar that crosses her cheek, which I'm guessing is the reason she has no eye.

Bizarrely, it doesn't faze me at all. Must be my medic training I don't remember. "Hey, it's okay," I say.

She runs her thumb beneath the patch, then turns to face me. "Don't want to scare anyone when I don't have my prosthetic eye in, but I find swimming in it aggravates me."

"Former army…medic," I reassure her.

She smiles. "Another patient said I could be Captain Jack Sparrow for Halloween in a couple of days."

I remember that movie coming out. Went to watch it with King. "Pretty sure he didn't have an…" I can't think of the word for her black eye thing, even though I had it a minute ago.

"Eye patch," she provides.

"Yes. You're more sparrow the bird than Sparrow the pirate."

She has a pretty smile and healthy rack. The funny thing is, I don't remember most of the sex I've had in my life, but the idea of fucking her tits comes to me.

"More sparrow the bird than pirate. I like it. I'm Sophia," she says, bundling herself up into a towel.

"Theo," I say. Everyone at the club calls me Switch , and I remember enough about club life that it's the biggest compliment, bond, and acceptance a man could wish for. But that feels like a life I'm not ready to claim yet because it fills the years I don't remember.

And I can't remember how I got the name, which seems pivotal to feeling comfortable using it.

"Let me guess. A construction accident."

I step into the water, because the way she keeps running her tongue over her lower lip is giving me a boner. The first organic, non-morning wood I've had since the accident. "Bike wreck."

"Ouch. Mine was a car. Until I apparently thought it could fly like an airplane and went airborne. At least, so I've been told." She chuckles at that. "Anyway, enjoy your swim, Theo," she says, and I watch as she leaves in the direction of the changing room.

I guess everyone here has their own story.

Her body's a mess, and she likes to overshare.

But she's a pretty one.

And as I step down into the pool, I find I want to know more about her.