At first, a month sounded like plenty of time to make a plan. I spent the first couple of days sleeping a lot and avoiding thinking—or God forbid, doing anything—about what I'd learned of my previous life.
Maybe denial wasn't the healthiest way of dealing with it, but my mind and my body couldn't handle any more shocks.
On the fourth day, I asked Drew for a laptop, and I settled in on the couch with a hot cup of tea—chosen because it had no texture at all and almost no smell, and therefore didn't startle me when it only tasted like "hot"—to buckle down and finally face the facts if I could find any facts, anyway.
Internet searches proved less than fruitful. I found an article in a local paper from a medium-sized town mentioning that I was still being sought, having stolen a car after an altercation and had disappeared.
