I’m propped up on the cot, a warm green fuzzy blanket tucked around my legs, my body drowning in an unfamiliar oversize T-shirt. The blanket is the kind maybe somebody’s mother would make. It hits me: it’s the kind my mother used to make. The knowledge is enough to make me taste bile. I turn to the side and dry-heave toward the bag on the ground next to me. I am immediately glad I didn’t vomit, because in the bag is what remains of my filthy clothing, along with the Inferno, Sam’s tattered book. I shouldn’t be surprised that it’s here — I’ve always kept it close — but somehow I am. In this warm, sterile room, it seems like a relic from another world. I’m truly awake for the first time I can remember. Awake and listening, listening for an endless time to these people who have saved my life. It’s hard to listen. It’s hard to stay awake.

A woman rushes into the room, a man not far behind her. The hunter. The woman sets a bucket next to me. What have I been throwing up? I have my answer right away because, as I wonder it, I am heaving again, and this time water and bile pour out of me. I’m throwing up fluids, remnants of the juice and broth they’ve methodically pumped into me. I feel as though I am dying for the second time.

“You’re safe now,” says the woman who gave me the bucket, Lara. “You’re at Saint Francis.” But three days ago I was in a dense wood, miles and miles from anywhere. I might have died there eventually, lost without food and water, miles from any town, if the hunters hadn’t found me.

“They were hunting deer,” she said. She said they almost hunted me. But instead, they carried me to their truck, because I was too weak and tired to walk much farther. They loaded me up like one of the animals they’d shot. They brought me to the shelter.

“Maybe I shoulda brought her to the hospital,” the one called Frank says anxiously. “That was a nasty bruise on her cheek. But she was walking and talking just fine. . . .”

“It’s OK, Frank,” says the woman named Lara. “You did the right thing.”

“You think,” he starts, then again in a lowered voice: “You think another abuse case?”

“Probably. We’ve got it under control, though. You can stop checking up on her now,” she says to him in a teasing voice. Through droopy eyelids I see her give him a quick kiss on the cheek before he walks away. This little gesture tells me everything. He didn’t know where to bring me, so he brought me to the woman he loved. It makes me happy and sad at the same time. I love someone, too.

My eyes start to droop.

“Abby,” the woman called Lara says. There’s a little tug on my necklace. “It’s Abby, right? Wake up, honey.” I try my hardest to look at her, but all I want to do is go back to sleep. My upper lids are magnets to my lower. I am gone.

“Abby?” I hear. I see a lovely woman, a brown-haired goddess, bent over my bed. It is Lara. I hadn’t known before that she was so beautiful.

My fault . . .

“Yes,” I say, even though I know for certain now that Abby isn’t my name at all.

No one can know.

“How are you feeling?” the woman asks.

“OK,” I say, even though I’m not OK; my insides are twisted in pain and sadness.

Don’t show it.

“Sweetheart,” she says, and instead of sounding patronizing, it sounds nice. “Do you remember me? You came in a few days ago and have been in and out of it ever since.”

“I think so,” I say. I do remember her bending over me with the hunter beside her, telling me her name, telling me everything is going to be OK. I remember sensing that this woman is good.

“Honey, can you tell me your full name?”

I pause.

Don’t tell.

I can’t tell her my name. This one thought penetrates all the haze. I can’t tell her my real last name because then she’ll know who I am. Then she’ll know I killed my family. The nausea overwhelms me again, and Lara watches as I relieve myself in the bucket that’s still by my bed.

“It’s Abby,” I say when I’m finally finished. “Abby Jameson.” It’s not quite strong enough but I’m weak, too weak to think of something else.

“How old are you, Abby?” Lara asks.

“Eighteen,” I say. It isn’t true; I’m just over seventeen, but I can’t tell her that. Eighteen is the age where you can do what you want. Eighteen is safe.

“I hate to put you through more than you’ve already dealt with,” she continues, “but do you mind telling me what you were doing out in those woods? Judging by how weak you are, you must have been out there for a while.”

“I don’t know” is all I can say. There’s a long silence. Then Lara stands up from where she’s been sitting at the foot of the bed; something in her shifts, some pained look turns to stone, and now she’s all business.

“This is my shelter, Abby. You’re lucky you ended up here. Frank’s a good man. We have a dedicated staff here, and it’s women only. We’re a Christian-based organization, and we’re always short on beds; there are always people knocking on our door. Our guests are allowed to stay for thirty days. We give you all the resources you need for getting back on your feet, finding a job. This is, of course, if you don’t have someone you can call, somewhere else you can go.”

I shake my head. “I don’t have a family,” I say.

“Fine,” she tells me. “The amount of time you seem to have spent on your own and the fact that you have no identification on your person would support that. In my experience, if you had someone looking for you, they would have found you by now. I’d turn you over to Social Services, but since you say you’re eighteen”— she gives me a long look —“I’m entitled to leave you be. At least until I check into it. I’m going to be confirming your story for our records, of course. Protocol. Meanwhile, try to use this time to your benefit.” I nod. I don’t know why she is suddenly cold, but I am relieved that she doesn’t seem interested in inquiring much further, and doubly relieved that I thought to give her a different name.

“Oh, Abby?” she says. “There’s one other thing. We require all of our guests to see a consulting psychologist. Donations help pay for his work. The rest he does pro bono; and since it’s something I firmly believe in, I tend to enforce it. You play by our rules, or you go. And in your case,” she adds a little more gently, “it might be especially beneficial. He can see you for up to six months for free, even after you’re not a guest here anymore. We’ll give it a week or so, until your physical health has improved.”

I don’t say anything. I can’t. I’m crying too hard, silent sobs that shatter my broken body. I’ve never felt so alone. Lara hands me a box of tissues, and with a light pat to my shoulder, she is gone.