Which These Bois Are Gonna Need

The room was cold and too bright. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, and one bulb near the observation window flickered without rhythm. Behind the dark glass, chairs scraped and evaluators spoke in low voices.

“Standard compliance test?”

“For the first stage.”

“They’ve completed verbal obedience?”

“Conditional obedience.”

“What’s that mean?”

“They obey when the instruction has an identifiable purpose.”

A pause followed. “That isn’t obedience.”

363 looked toward the glass.

Their reflection hovered faintly across it. A bruise darkened one cheek. One knuckle was split from an earlier assessment. They hadn’t noticed either injury until someone else pointed them out.

The handler at the table lifted the collar. It was heavier than it looked. Two blunt metal contacts protruded from the inside. A rectangular control box sat at the front, positioned to rest directly over the throat.

363’s fingers curled.

“Chin up,” the handler said.

His badge read H. Joconys.

363 didn’t move.

Joconys stepped closer.

“Chin up, 363.”

They raised their head.

He moved behind them and brought the strap around their neck. Leather brushed their skin. One contact settled beneath their jaw, the other against the side of their throat.

Joconys pulled the strap tight.

Once.

Twice.

Then one notch more.

363 swallowed.

The control box shifted against their windpipe.

“It’s too tight,” they said.

“It’s fitted correctly.”

“I can feel it.”

Joconys gave a short laugh.

“That’s the point.”

A woman near the door checked the remote. Her badge read Dale. She pressed a button, and a green light appeared on the collar.

The device vibrated once against 363’s throat.

Their breath caught.

Joconys slid two fingers beneath the strap.

“You can breathe.”

“That isn’t what I said.”

A pen scratched behind the glass.

“Record increased fixation on throat contact.”

Joconys removed his hand.

“Hands at your sides,” Dale said.

“They are.”

“Open them.”

363 looked down. Their fingers had folded inward without their permission.

They forced them straight.

“Remain inside the square.”

363 studied the yellow boundary.

“For how long?”

“Until you’re instructed otherwise.”

“What happens after?”

“You don’t need to know.”

“Yes, I do.”

Joconys sighed.

“This isn’t a discussion.”

The speaker crackled.

“Begin.”

Dale raised the remote.

“Step forward.”

363 remained still.

The collar clicked and electricity passed between the contacts.

The muscles in their neck tightened. Their jaw locked briefly, and their head tilted a fraction to the right.

Then it stopped.

363 straightened but no pain followed, only the strange sensation of their body moving without permission.

Dale looked at the remote.

Joconys frowned.

“Did you activate it?”

“Yes.”

“They didn’t react.”

“There was a muscular response.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

363 touched the side of their neck.

Joconys slapped their hand away.

“Hands down.”

They lowered it.

A faint vibration remained beneath their skin. They understood what the electricity was supposed to do. Pain should’ve warned them that something was wrong.

Their body didn’t provide that warning.

The handlers didn’t know that yet.

“Try again,” Joconys said.

The second discharge pulled harder at the muscles in 363’s neck. Their shoulders jerked. Their teeth struck together.

They stayed in the square.

Joconys stared at them.

“Again.”

The next shock twisted their head sharply enough that the control box struck their throat. Their heel lifted, then returned to the floor.

The current stopped.

363 corrected their posture.

“Nothing,” Joconys said.

“The device is working,” Dale replied. “Their muscles are contracting.”

“They aren’t showing pain.”

The speaker crackled again.

“Ask them.”

Joconys stepped into 363’s line of sight.

“What did you feel?”

“Electricity.”

“Describe the pain.”

“There wasn’t any.”

He watched their face. “Don’t be difficult.”

“I’m answering.”

“Everyone feels that setting.”

“I didn’t.”

Behind the glass, the evaluators began speaking over one another.

“Could be dissociation.”

“Could be a high threshold.”

“No. They should still be showing distress.”

Dale increased the setting.

363 watched her thumb move. “You’re raising it.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t know whether it’s causing damage.”

“You said it doesn’t hurt.”

“That isn’t the same thing.”

Joconys stepped closer.

“Remain silent unless you’re asked a question.”

“No.”

Dale pressed the button.

The current snapped through 363’s neck. Their shoulders jerked upward. Their head twisted, and the control box drove hard against their windpipe. For less than a second, their breath stopped.

That was worse than the electricity.

The shock ended.

363 inhaled. The collar shifted with the movement. Leather dragged across their skin. The contacts pressed deeper whenever they swallowed. Their pulse beat against the strap, making the pressure impossible to ignore.

They reached for the buckle.

Joconys caught their wrist.

“Don’t touch the equipment.”

“It moved.”

“It’s secure.”

“It’s pressing against my throat.”

“You’re breathing.”

363 pulled their hand free.

Joconys’s expression sharpened.

“You’ll keep your hands down.”

They tried but their fingers kept curling.

The collar wasn’t choking them - they knew that there was room for air - but knowing didn’t help.!:&!!&;;

Every breath moved the box. Every swallow pressed the contacts into their neck. They could feel the strap everywhere at once.

“Step forward,” Dale said.

363 looked at the line.

“No.”

The collar activated.

Their muscles contracted hard enough to throw one foot outside the yellow square.

Joconys smiled.

“There.”

The current stopped.

363 immediately stepped back.

“Successful correction,” Joconys said.

“No,” said someone behind the glass. “That was involuntary movement.”

“The trainee crossed the line.”

“Because the current pulled them.”

“The result’s the same.”

“It isn’t,” 363 said.

The room fell quiet.

Joconys turned toward them.

“What did you say?”

“I didn’t comply. My body moved.”

Dale lowered the remote slightly.

“You were instructed not to speak.”

“No. He said I could speak when I was asked a question. You asked me to move.”

Joconys’s jaw tightened.

“That isn’t an invitation to debate wording.”

“Then use the right wording.”

Dale coughed into her hand, hiding a smile.

Joconys noticed. “Increase the setting.”

“We’re already past the introductory range.”

“They’re challenging authority.”

“The device isn’t producing the intended response.”

“Then increase it until it does.”

The evaluators spoke quietly behind the glass.

363 caught only a few words.

Threshold. Neurological. Valuable.

The next discharge lasted longer.

Their shoulders rose. Their jaw slammed shut. Their knees bent, but they remained standing.

363 counted the seconds because counting kept the room from dissolving into noise and pressure.

Four.

Five.

Six.

The current stopped.

Their head hung forward, forcing the box into their throat. Their mouth tasted metallic when they inhaled slowly through their nose. They ran their tongue along their cheek and found blood.

They couldn’t feel the cut.

“Look up,” Joconys said.

363 raised their head.

“Did that hurt?”

“No.”

“There’s blood in their mouth,” Dale said.

“They bit their cheek.”

“They should be checked.”

“They’re still standing.”

“That doesn’t mean they aren’t injured.”

Joconys ignored her.

“You’ll step forward when you’re instructed.”

“Why?”

“Because you were told to.”

“That isn’t a reason.”

“It’s the only one you need.”

“No.”

Joconys came close enough that 363 could smell coffee on his breath.

“You aren’t here to understand. You’re here to learn compliance.”

363 looked down at him.

“Step forward,” he said.

They stayed still.

Dale activated the collar.

363’s body convulsed.

Their foot scraped across the concrete, but they forced it back before it crossed the line.

Again.

Their neck seized.

Again.

Their vision flashed at the edges.

The electricity still did little.

The pressure didn’t.

Each contraction dragged the collar against their throat. Each breath made the control box rise and fall against their windpipe.

Their breathing quickened.

Joconys watched them carefully.

“There’s the distress response.”

“It’s the pressure,” Dale said.

“Of course it is.”

“I mean the collar itself. Not the current.”

Joconys scoffed.

“That doesn’t make sense.”

363’s hands closed into fists.

The room narrowed.

The collar.

Joconys’s hands.

Dale’s thumb.

The door.

Three handlers.

The dark glass.

“Remove it,” 363 said.

“That isn’t your decision.”

“It’s too tight.”

“It wasn’t too tight ten minutes ago.”

“It shifted.”

“You’re agitated.”

“Yes.”

“Then control yourself.”

363 swallowed. The box pressed inward.

“Remove it.”

Joconys looked toward the glass.

“They’re attempting to manipulate the assessment.”

“They’ve repeatedly identified pressure at the throat,” Dale said.

“They want the test to end.”

“Yes,” 363 said. “I do.”

Joconys’s gaze snapped back to them.

Someone behind the glass laughed softly.

Joconys reached for 363’s chin.

They moved away.

“Hold still.”

“No.”

His fingers closed around their jaw.

363 struck his hand aside.

The other handlers shifted.

Joconys’s face reddened.

“You don’t strike staff.”

“I moved your hand.”

“You made physical contact.”

“You touched me first.”

Joconys reached again.

This time, instead of their jaw, he grabbed the collar. His fingers hooked beneath the front strap.

He pulled.

The leather drove upward beneath 363’s jaw. The control box slammed into their windpipe.

Air vanished, the pressure swallowing the whole room.

A hand at their throat.

The strap tightening.

The sudden certainty that they couldn’t breathe.

363 didn’t decide to attack.

Their body moved before thought could catch up.

They caught Joconys’s wrist with one hand and his thumb with the other.

Then they turned.

The joint folded past its intended range.

Joconys shouted.

363 kept turning until something cracked beneath their fingers.

He screamed.

Dale activated the collar.

Electricity tore through 363’s neck.

Their muscles seized, but their grip held.

They drove Joconys backward into the steel table. The plastic case fell and scattered across the floor.

The handler near the door rushed them.

363 saw him in the reflection of the dark glass.

They released Joconys, pivoted, and struck the second handler across the throat with their forearm hard enough to stop him but not crush him.

He gagged and stumbled.

363 seized his uniform and drove him shoulder-first into the wall.

The fluorescent light above them shook.

Dale shouted their number. “363!”

The collar activated again.

Their shoulders jerked. They ignored it.

Joconys lunged with his uninjured hand.

363 caught his arm, turned beneath it, and threw him over their hip.

He struck the floor hard.

The third handler came from behind.

One arm wrapped around 363’s chest. The other hand caught the collar.

He pulled backward.

The strap tightened.

363 made a sound they didn’t recognize.

They dropped their weight, hooked a leg behind the handler’s ankle, and threw him over their hip.

He hit the floor on his back.

363 followed him down.

One knee landed beside his ribs. One hand pinned his wrist. The other closed around his throat.

The handler froze. His pulse beat rapidly beneath 363’s palm.

They knew how to stop it.

The knowledge came calmly.

Pressure here.

Tilt the head.

Hold until movement ends.

“Release him!” Dale shouted.

363’s fingers tightened.

The handler made a choking sound.

Alarms began sounding in the corridor. Red light pulsed above the door.

The evaluator’s voice came through the speaker.

“363. Release the handler.”

They looked toward the observation glass. The emergency lights made the people behind it visible.

Four evaluators.

Two standing.

One backing away.

One still writing.

“The collar,” 363 said.

Their voice sounded rough.

“Release him first.”

“Remove it.”

“We can’t approach while you’re assaulting staff.”

363 looked down at the man beneath them.

His face was darkening.

They loosened their grip enough for him to inhale.

“Unlock it remotely.”

“The buckle’s manual.”

“Then send someone.”

“That isn’t going to happen.”

“Then he stays.”

The handler trembled beneath them.

“Please,” he whispered.

363 studied him.

He’d grabbed them but he hadn’t put the collar on. He hadn’t raised the setting. He’d only followed orders and touched them carelessly, as though obedience made care unnecessary.

363 removed their hand.

The handler rolled onto his side, coughing.

They stood.

Dale aimed the remote at them with both hands.

“Get on your knees.”

“No.”

The collar activated.

363’s body locked but they stayed upright.

More staff gathered outside the room. They wore padded armor and carried restraint poles. One held a syringe.

363 saw the needle.

Cold moved through them.

There wasn’t a memory attached to the fear. Only the certainty that the syringe was worse than the collar.

They stepped backward.

“Don’t inject me.”

No one answered.

“363,” the evaluator said. “Kneel and put your hands behind your head.”

“No.”

“If you comply, we’ll remove the collar.”

“You said someone has to approach me either way.”

Silence.

The evaluator glanced aside.

A decision was being made about the easiest way to control them.

The door opened.

The restraint team entered.

363 lowered their center of gravity.

The first pole came from the left. They caught the shaft and pulled, dragging the handler forward. Then they drove the pole into his chest and sent him crashing into the person behind him.

Another pole hooked behind their knee.

They tore free before it could pin the joint.

The collar activated.

Their balance broke.

The team surged forward.

363 struck one person beneath the ribs, kicked another in the knee, and caught a gloved hand reaching for their face. They bit down until they tasted blood.

A padded shield struck their shoulder.

They hit the wall.

The impact flashed white across their vision.

Hands reached for them. One grabbed their ankle, another caught their arm, and a third seized the collar.

363 screamed.

The sound shocked them more than the electricity had. It was raw and wordless, dragged from somewhere below thought.

They drove their forehead into the face in front of them.

Cartilage gave way.

The hand released the collar.

363 fought toward the open door.

A restraint pole struck behind their knees.

They fell.

Their hands hit the concrete and someone forced one arm behind their back. Someone else knelt between their shoulder blades.

The control box pressed into the floor beneath their throat, making every breath shallow.

The syringe came closer.

363 twisted hard enough to throw the person on their back sideways.

“Hold their head!”

“Don’t touch the collar!”

“They’re going to break their neck!”

“They can’t feel it!”

The last sentence cut through the room.

For one fraction of a second, everyone stopped.

Then the needle entered 363’s upper arm.

They felt pressure and threw the person holding the syringe against the wall, but the drug was already inside them.

Their movements lost precision first. Then strength.

They tried to rise and found that their arms wouldn’t support them.

The handlers closed in. One of them secured their wrists while another fastened restraints around their ankles. Several bodies pinned them against the floor.

Joconys had pulled himself upright beside the table. He cradled his injured wrist against his chest.

He approached anyway.

“Leave them,” Dale said.

He ignored her.

363’s cheek rested against the cold concrete. The collar pressed against their throat from below.

Joconys crouched.

“You think you proved something?”

363 tried to lift their head.

Their muscles barely responded.

Joconys reached toward the collar.

Their body surged uselessly against the restraints.

He flinched and everyone saw it.

For one moment, he was afraid to touch them but anger quickly replaced the fear.

He unfastened the buckle and tore the collar away.

Air moved freely across 363’s throat.

They inhaled relief, flooding their entire body.

Joconys held the collar up.

A thin streak of blood marked the inside of the leather where one of the contacts had broken the skin.

Dale stared at it.

“They told you it shifted.”

Joconys looked at the blood. Then at 363.

“They attacked three staff members.”

“They told you.”

“They’re dangerous.”

“You made them dangerous.”

No one behind the glass answered. The evaluator who’d continued writing turned a page.

“Time from initial tactile escalation to attack?”

Dale stared at him.

“You’re still assessing them?”

“That’s why we’re here.”

Joconys stood.

The evaluator continued dictating.

“Electrical correction produced limited behavioral response despite visible muscular contraction. Subject reports no pain. Possible congenital or neurological pain insensitivity.”

363 fought to keep their eyes open.

The observation window blurred.

“Marked agitation associated with pressure around the throat,” the evaluator said. “Rapid escalation after frontal manipulation of the collar.”

“Escalation?” Dale repeated.

“They disabled the wrist controlling the collar first.”

Joconys looked down at his injured hand.

The evaluator’s pen kept moving.

“Subject retained situational awareness throughout electrical exposure. Identified exits, anticipated approach vectors, and used staff momentum effectively. Violence was targeted rather than indiscriminate.”

363 tried to speak. Their tongue felt heavy.

“Remove—”

“The collar’s off,” Dale said quietly.

She crouched beside them and touched the skin at the side of their neck.

363 tried to recoil.

“Don’t,” she said. “I’m checking the injury.”

Behind the glass, the evaluator continued.

“Standard pain-compliance equipment’s likely ineffective. Recommend medical testing and alternate methods of control.”

A second evaluator spoke.

“Can they still be trained as a Guard Dog?”

The writer looked through the glass.

Joconys stood with a damaged wrist.

One handler struggled to breathe. Another held cloth beneath his bleeding nose. The man 363 had pinned sat against the wall, one hand covering his throat.

The evaluator considered the room.

“Yes,” he said.

363’s eyes closed.

The yellow square stretched across their blurred vision.

Most of their body was still inside it.

Only one hand had fallen beyond the line.

The evaluator’s voice followed them into the dark.

“Who is Aminata Blessing?”

Nothing.

“I don’t know.”

“What were you studying?”

Sita knew how to study.

They knew how to organize notes, identify relevant material, compare sources, and construct an argument. They didn’t know what subject had filled their days.

“I don’t know.”

“Where did you live?”

Sita searched for the dormitory.

The word dormitory remained available.

A building providing sleeping and residential space, often for students.

They couldn’t remember living in one.

“I don’t know.”

“Why were you brought here?”

They looked at the ceiling.

There should’ve been an answer. They knew the people in the room were dangerous. They knew that from observation and from the restraints and from the concealed badges and from the unidentified drugs and from the fact that every question had been answered with euphemism.

They retained judgment.

Pattern recognition.

Language.

They knew the woman was lying.

They simply didn’t know what truth she was replacing.

“I don’t know.”

The woman’s shoulders relaxed.

“Good.”

Sita flinched at the word.

The clinician reduced the infusion rate.

“Autobiographical response significantly diminished. Semantic and procedural retention appear intact.”

The woman looked at the screen.

“Language?”

“Preserved.”

“Motor planning?”

“Preserved.”

“Threat recognition?”

“Likely preserved.”

“That’ll be useful.”

The clinician examined Sita’s pupils with a small light.

They understood what the light was for.

They followed it because their eyes did so reflexively.

“Orientation?” the woman asked.

The clinician looked down at Sita.

“What year is it?”

Sita answered.

The number came easily.

“What country are you in?”

Sita hesitated.

They named the country they believed they were in, but there was no context around the answer. No map of how they’d arrived. No city. No journey.

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Three.”

“What’s this?”

“A penlight.”

“What’s the capital of France?”

“Paris.”

“What’s your name?”

Silence.

The answer should’ve occupied the same part of their mind as all the others.

It didn’t.

“What’s your name?” the clinician repeated.

They searched.

There was no name.

There were only questions and definitions.

A name was a word or set of words by which a person was known, addressed, or referred to.

They knew that.

They didn’t possess one.

“I don’t know.”

The clinician entered a final note.

“Appropriate response.”

The woman stepped closer. The badge at her chest remained turned inward.

“You’re safe,” she said.

They knew she was lying.

They didn’t know what safety had looked like before this room. They didn’t know whose presence had once made them feel it.

The absence was unbearable for one brief, lucid instant.

Then the medication pulled them downward.

The ceiling blurred. The restraints became distant pressure. The woman’s voice continued somewhere above them.

“You don’t need to fight.”

They tried to remember why they’d been fighting.

The answer didn’t come.

“You don’t need to go back.”

Back where?

“You don’t need anyone who isn’t here.”

Who wasn’t here?

“You’ll be given everything you require.”

The words passed through them without attaching to anything.

They closed their eyes.

Some part of them still understood that sleep was dangerous. Another part had already forgotten why.

When they woke, the room was quiet.

The intravenous bags were gone.

A square of gauze had been taped over the inside of their elbow. There was dried blood beneath one edge.

The straps around their thighs and upper arms had been removed. The restraints remained around their wrists, ankles, chest, and hips.

The band across their forehead was gone.

They turned their head slowly.

The movement made the room tilt.

They waited for it to stop.

A camera occupied the upper corner. The lens covered most of the bed. The door had no handle on the inside. The overhead light was protected by a transparent panel secured with tamper-resistant screws.

They understood all of that immediately.

Their mind was clear.

They knew what a camera did. They knew the door was reinforced. They knew the restraints could be cut with the correct tool and couldn’t be broken through direct force without injuring the joints. They knew how to distribute their weight if they needed to roll the bed.

They knew how to identify a person’s dominant hand.

They knew several methods of escaping a wrist grip. They didn’t know where they’d learned any of it.

A woman sat beside the bed, reading from a tablet.

They recognized her as someone dangerous.

They didn’t remember meeting her.

She noticed their eyes were open.

“Good morning.”

They didn’t answer.

She stood and checked the monitor.

“You completed stabilization successfully.”

The phrase meant nothing.

They looked at the gauze over their vein.

“What did you give me?”

Their voice sounded rough.

“Medication.”

“What kind?”

“Something to help you prepare.”

“For what?”

“Training.”

“What training?”

“That’ll be explained later.”

They watched her.

Her posture was relaxed, but she kept herself beyond the reach of their feet. She’d positioned the tablet beneath one arm, leaving her other hand free. There was a call button clipped near her waist.

They understood the precautions.

They didn’t know why she thought they were necessary.

The woman touched the restraint around their wrist.

They pulled away as far as the leather allowed.

“Don’t touch me.”

Her face showed brief satisfaction.

“Verbal expression intact.”

They stared at her.

She entered something into the tablet.

“State your name.”

The request should’ve been ordinary.

They understood the words.

They searched for an answer.

Nothing appeared.

There wasn’t even a blank shape where a name should’ve been.

Only the sudden awareness that other people had one.

The woman waited.

They looked down at themself as though the answer might be written somewhere on their body.

A white identification band circled their wrist beneath the restraint.

Black numbers had been printed across it.

They read them easily.

Three hundred sixty-three.

The number didn’t awaken a memory.

It was simply present.

“I don’t know,” they said.

The woman glanced at the wristband.

“Your designation is 363.”

They looked at her.

“What does that mean?”

“It means that’s how you’ll be identified.”

“Is it my name?”

“It’s what you’re called.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s yours.”

They studied the number again.

They knew that wasn’t an answer.

They knew enough to recognize avoidance.

But when they searched for another identifier, there was nothing with which to challenge her.

No name.

No family.

No home.

No history.

They had language without a first voice.

Knowledge without lessons.

Instincts without events.

They knew how to fight.

They didn’t know who had taught them danger.

They knew how to read.

They couldn’t remember the first book they’d loved.

They knew how to recognize grief in another person’s face.

They didn’t know whom they had ever grieved.

The woman reached for the buckle across their chest.

They tensed.

“I’m going to release this restraint.”

They watched her hands.

“Why was I restrained?”

“You were distressed.”

“About what?”

“Your previous identity.”

They waited.

The words suggested that there’d been something before.

A person.

A life.

A name.

They searched again.

Nothing.

“What was it?”

“That information isn’t necessary.”

“It was mine.”

The sentence came from instinct rather than memory.

The woman paused, smiling coldly.

“Was it?”

They couldn’t answer.

The buckle opened.

The restraint loosened across their chest.

They drew a deeper breath but didn’t relax.

The woman moved to their left wrist.

“Before I remove the remaining restraints, I need you to confirm your designation.”

They looked at the door.

Locked.

At the camera.

Recording.

At the call button near her hip.

At the wristband.

They understood the structure of the demand.

The number was the cost of being allowed to sit up.

They also understood that refusing wouldn’t restore whatever had been lost.

“What’s your designation?” the woman asked.

They didn’t answer immediately.

A faint pressure moved through their mind.

Something should’ve objected.

Something should’ve insisted on another word.

Another name.

Another life.

But there was nothing behind the feeling.

No syllables surfaced.

No remembered voice corrected her.

The number remained the only available fact.

“363,” they said.

The woman released their left wrist.

“Again.”

They flexed their fingers, testing circulation.

“363.”

The right wrist opened.

“Good.”

The word produced an involuntary tightening in their stomach.

They didn’t know why.

The woman released their ankles last.

363 sat up slowly.

The room swayed around them. They placed one hand against the mattress and waited until the floor appeared stable.

The woman stepped back.

“Do you know who you are?”

363 looked at the number around their wrist.

It wasn’t a history.

It wasn’t a person.

It wasn’t enough.

But there was nothing else.

“I’m 363.”

The woman smiled again.

This time, she looked pleased.

For the moment, 363 didn’t know enough to understand how much they’d lost.

They only knew there was an empty place inside them, shaped like something that had once been important.

They knew how medications were tested. They knew what a placebo was. They knew that dosage could be measured by weight. They knew the difference between retrograde amnesia and anterograde amnesia.

They didn’t remember learning any of it.

The realization opened beneath them like a missing stair.

“Where did I learn that?”

No one answered.

That seemed like something they would learn in school. They were old enough to be in university, possibly. They searched for a lecture hall.

Rows of seats.

A screen at the front.

A professor talking.

They saw the room for less than a second before the people vanished from it. The walls quickly vanished after it and after that, the screen, until only the concept - knowledge without an origin - remained. 

They knew what journalism was. They knew it was the gathering, verification, interpretation, and presentation of information. They knew how to record an interview.

Someone had taught them to recognize evasion and how to preserve a source’s anonymity. They’d also taught them how to structure a question so it couldn’t be escaped without revealing the attempt.

But why had they chosen journalism?

Dad.

The word floated by them like a leaf in a stream. They desperately tried to grasp it, fingers curling and uncurling as they searched for him. 

He’d been a man sitting across from them at a restaurant table. His hand lay flat against the table.

There was a glass beside it, wet with condensation.

“You don’t understand what they’ll do.”

The sentence appeared clearly and Sita caught it.

This had something to do with Dad. Dad had said that.

They were sure.

What had they answered in response?

The restaurant had been loud. Silverware had clinked against plates. A child cried near the entrance. Music blasted from speakers hidden somewhere above them.

Dad had leaned forward.

Sita had been angry.

“You don’t get to decide—”

Decide what?

Their coursework?

An article?

A trip?

Who they spoke to?

The scene flickered. The restaurant lights dimmed. The walls went gray.

Their father’s face became impossible to hold.

“Dad,” Sita said.

The word remained.

The man didn’t.

“What did we argue about?”

The woman beside the bed watched them.

Sita’s chest strained against the leather.

“What did we argue about?”

“You don’t need to retain upsetting material,” the woman said.

“It wasn’t upsetting material.”

“You’re distressed by it now.”

“Because you’re taking it.”

“No one is taking anything that’ll be useful to you.”

Sita turned their eyes toward her.

“He’s useful to me.”

“Your attachments are interfering with stabilization.”

“He’s my father.”

“That relationship is no longer relevant.”

The sentence struck harder than panic.

Sita fought the straps again. The leather bit into their wrists. The chest band held them flat. Their ankle restraints rattled against the frame.

The handler pressed both hands against Sita’s forearm to protect the intravenous line.

“Stop moving.”

“No.”

“You’ll bruise yourself.”

“No.”

“You’ll damage the vein.”

“Then take it out.”

“You’re prolonging your distress.”

Sita’s head swam, heavy and difficult. The room brightened until the white ceiling hurt to look at.

They closed their eyes.

Facts.

They needed facts. They started with their name.

Sita-Blessing Kande.

Their father: Benjamin Kande.

Their mother: Aminata Blessing.

Their dormitory and its green door.

No. Wait. It had been brown.The door had been brown. There was a metal number attached near the top with three digits. Maybe two. 

The first was—

Sita searched. Nothing came.

Their dormitory room had two beds or one bed. It had two beds because they had a roommate. 

Hadn't they?

There were clothes draped over the back of a chair. A cracked red notebook rested beside the bed.

Sita reached for the writing inside it.

Pages. Dates. Fragments of interviews.

A list of questions for—

The notebook disappeared.

“I had a red notebook.”

The clinician checked the monitor. She didn’t respond.

“I had three notebooks beside my bed.”

Were there three?

Sita could no longer see them.

“I was studying journalism.”

That fact remained. It floated alone, detached from classrooms, teachers, deadlines, and purpose.

“What university?” the woman asked.

Sita opened their eyes.

The question was simple. They should’ve known. They pictured the campus with its stone steps and trees. They imagined students gathering beneath a covered walkway. There had been a library with --

Nothing.

The image didn’t even fragment. It failed to arrive.

“What university?” the woman repeated.

Sita’s lips parted.

They couldn’t answer.

The woman typed something.

“No.”

Sita pulled once against the restraints. The movement had less strength behind it.

Their limbs felt delayed.

“My dormitory was—”

They had lived in a city.

They knew a city meant a dense population, roads, apartments, public transportation. Government offices.

They couldn’t name the one where they’d lived. They couldn’t remember the view from their window. They knew there had been a window because dormitories had windows.

Had theirs?

Sita squeezed their eyes shut.

Their name. The name was most important.

Everything connected to it. Names identified people. Some cultures placed family names last. 

“My name is Sita-Blessing Kande.”

The sentence sounded practiced now.

They said it again.

“My name is Sita-Blessing Kande.”

Sita.

Blessing.

Kande.

Kande was probably a family name.

Why probably?

It was theirs. Wasn’t it?

They reached for the feeling of recognition.

Nothing.

The name didn’t settle against their body. It hovered nearby like information they’d been instructed to memorize.

“My name is…”

The words stopped.

The woman leaned closer.

“Your name is what?”

Sita stared at the ceiling. Their pulse beat hard in their throat.

They knew the answer. They’d just said it.

“My name is…”

The first sound waited somewhere.

Si—

They caught it.

“Sita.”

The woman didn’t correct them.

Sita searched for the rest.

Blessing.

Kande.

They knew the words. They couldn’t remember why they belonged together.

“Who is Sita?” the woman asked.

Sita frowned.

The forehead restraint pressed against their skin.

Who was Sita?

A person.

A name.

The person lying on this bed.

Was that true because they remembered it, or because they’d repeated it?

“My name,” they said.

“What does that name mean to you?”

The question was wrong. Names didn’t need to mean anything beyond identification.

But this one should’ve.

They could feel the shape of an absence forming around it.

Someone had chosen it. Someone had used it with affection. Someone had written it down.

Sita tried to find any of them.

No faces appeared. Their mother’s hands were gone. Their father’s raised eyebrow was gone. The restaurant had become a table suspended in darkness. The dormitory had become a door without a room behind it.

“Benjamin Kande,” Sita whispered.

The name didn’t produce a person.

“Who is that?” the woman asked.

Sita’s eyes burned.

“My…”

They knew the word father. A male parent. A social and biological relationship. A man responsible for—

The definition remained perfectly accessible.

The person didn't.

“My father.”

“What does he look like?”

Sita searched.

He had dark skin. That was too broad. He had dark eyes. It was still too broad. There was a shirt. And a table. Ink.

None of it joined into a face.

“I don’t…”

The monitor chimed.

Sita swallowed hard.

“I know him.”

“What does he look like?”

“I know him.”

“Describe him.”

Sita couldn’t.

The woman typed.

“Who is Aminata Blessing?”

Sita turned their eyes toward her.

The sounds were familiar without content. It was like hearing the title of a book they might’ve read.

“My mother.”

“Describe her voice.”

Sita tried.

Warm. What did warmth sound like?

She sang. What song? What language?

Sita understood several languages. Words remained available in separate systems, each with its own grammar and rhythm. They could translate a sentence mentally. They could distinguish French from Spanish. They could recognize Malay. They understood English.

They couldn’t remember who had first spoken any of them to them. They couldn’t remember which language their mother used when she was tired. They couldn’t remember what their father called them when he was proud.

“I can’t hear her,” Sita said.

The admission barely had sound.

The woman watched their face.

“Then let her go.”

Sita pulled against the restraints again. The effort was weak now.

“No.”

“You’re holding on to distress.”

“She’s my mother.”

“You can’t remember her.”

“That doesn’t mean she didn’t exist.”

The woman’s expression stayed calm.

“It means she can’t help you here.”

Sita’s eyes filled.

They blinked.

The tears ran sideways toward their temples.

The clinician wiped one away before it reached the electrode.

The touch was efficient.

Impersonal.

Sita tried to turn from it, but the forehead restraint held them still.

“I hate you,” they said.

The woman nodded as though this had been anticipated on a chart.

“That feeling will pass.”

Sita wanted to promise it wouldn’t. They wanted to memorize the woman’s face, the angle of her mouth, the shape of her nose, the fine scar near her hairline. They wanted to hold enough of her to recognize her later.

The thought scattered before they could finish studying her. Their attention slipped.

They returned to the list.

Name.

Father.

Mother.

Dormitory.

Studies.

Restaurant.

Name.

Father.

Mother.

Dormitory.

Studies.

Restaurant.

They repeated it silently.

Name.

Father.

Mother.

Room.

School.

Table.

The words shortened without permission.

Name.

Father.

Mother.

Room.

School.

Table.

Name.

Man.

Woman.

Room.

School.

Table.

They didn’t notice when the categories replaced the people.

They noticed only when they tried to begin again.

Their name was—

Sita-Blessing Kande.

They knew the sequence because it had been repeated.

Was it true?

The doubt terrified them.

“My name is Sita-Blessing Kande.”

The woman glanced at the clinician.

“Continue reinforcement.”

The clinician adjusted the pump.

A second wave entered Sita’s bloodstream. The world softened at the edges.

“You don’t need that name,” the woman said.

Sita looked at her.

“It’s mine.”

“It’s associated with fear, confusion, and resistance.”

“It’s mine.”

“You were unhappy before.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You were in danger.”

“From you.”

“You were unprotected.”

“My parents—”

The sentence broke.

Sita knew the plural word parents. They knew they’d used it to refer to two people. They couldn’t see either of them.

“My parents were…”

Sita didn’t know.

They couldn’t remember whether their parents knew where they’d gone. They couldn’t remember why anyone had taken them.

“Why am I here?”

The woman smiled faintly.

“You required placement.”

“No. Before that.”

“There’s nothing before that you need to worry about.”

“I was taken because…”

Because Dad had written something.

Hadn’t he?

An article.

An investigation.

A warning.

Sita saw papers spread across a table. A photograph with a face circled in ink. Dad’s voice telling them to stay out of it.

Sita telling him—

The memory tore.

The papers became blank. The photograph became a white square. The warning lost its words.

“I was taken because of my father.”

“Who is your father?”

Sita opened their mouth.

No answer emerged.

The knowledge had been there moments ago. They could remember that they’d remembered. They couldn’t retrieve what the memory had contained.

Panic surged through the fog.

Their heart hammered. Their fingers curled uselessly against the mattress.

“What did you do?”

The woman didn’t answer.

“What did you do?”

“You’re being stabilized.”

“What did you do to me?”

The clinician watched the monitor.

“Response threshold approaching.”

“Proceed,” the woman said.

Sita tried the name again.

They found it in pieces.

Sita.

Blessing.

Kande.

They understood each sound. They couldn’t locate the person.

“Who is Sita-Blessing Kande?” the woman asked.

Sita stared at her.

The question entered their mind and met nothing. They knew it should’ve been easy. They knew they should’ve felt something immediate and undeniable.

Instead, there was only the sterile room. The straps. The intravenous line. The cold moving through their arm. The name sounded like someone else’s.

A stranger mentioned in an article they couldn’t quite remember reading.

“Sita-Blessing Kande,” the woman repeated. “Who is that?”

Sita searched for a face. They tried to place it against themself.

The connection wouldn’t hold.

The corridor beyond the doors was narrow and painfully bright. Light panels covered most of the ceiling, washing the walls in a flat, colorless glare. There were no windows. No clocks. No signs indicating which floor they were on or what part of the building they’d entered.

Only numbered doors.

M-4. M-6. M-8.

Even numbers were on the right, odd numbers were on the left.

Sita counted them automatically.

There were four cameras between the entrance and the first turn, two ceiling vents, one sprinkler head and a red emergency pull station covered by a transparent plastic shield.

The handler walking on Sita’s left wore her badge on a retractable cord. The cord extended approximately sixty centimeters. The badge had a black magnetic stripe along the back and a narrow gold band across the front. The man on Sita’s right had a key clipped inside his belt.

He favored his left leg.

There was bruising across the knuckles of his right hand.

Concrete facts. Facts couldn’t be argued out of existence. Facts couldn’t be made obedient.

The restraints around Sita’s wrists were attached to a broad transport belt fastened tightly around their waist. A short chain limited the movement of their arms. Another chain ran down to the cuffs around their ankles, allowing them to walk but not extend either leg far enough to run properly.

The arrangement had been designed by someone who understood exactly how much movement a person needed to remain technically cooperative.

They shortened their stride before the ankle chain could jerk.

The woman beside them noticed.

“Good adjustment.”

They looked at her.

The woman’s voice was calm, almost conversational, as if they were walking through a hospital together. As if Sita hadn’t been dragged from their dormitory, drugged, transported across an unknown distance, stripped, photographed, examined, numbered, and locked in a room without being told where they were.

“I didn’t do it for you,” Sita said.

The woman didn’t look offended.

“That kind of defensiveness is normal during intake.”

“It isn’t defensiveness.”

“What would you call it?”

“Accuracy.”

The man on their right gave the chain attached to the back of the transport belt a sharp pull. They stumbled half a step, caught themself, and continued walking.

The woman glanced at him.

“Don’t damage their knees. Retrieval assessment hasn’t been completed.”

Retrieval.

Assessment.

Sita stored the words.

“Where are you taking me?”

“To medical.”

“For what?”

“Stabilization.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’ve experienced significant emotional distress.”

They snorted. “No shit. You kidnapped me.”

The woman kept walking.

“You’re still using inflammatory language.”

“What else am I supposed to call it?” They asked, frowning, “kidnapping is the unlawful taking, moving, and confinement of a person against their will by using force, trickery, or threats.”

“You were transported for evaluation.”

“I was taken from my room by people with weapons. That was both threatening and forceful.”

“You were highly resistant.”

“I didn’t know who you were. Next time, I'll make tea.”

“You were given instructions.”

“You broke my lock.”

The man pulled the chain again.

This time Sita was ready. They moved with the pressure instead of against it and kept their balance.

The woman pressed her badge to another reader. A green light illuminated beneath her hand, followed by the heavy mechanical release of a lock.

Sita watched the sequence.

Badge.

Green light.

Half-second delay.

Mechanical bolt retracting from the left side of the frame.

The woman opened the door.

“You’ll find the adjustment process much easier when you stop trying to interpret every procedure as an attack.”

Sita didn’t move through the doorway. They widened their stance as far as the ankle restraints allowed.

The man behind them moved.

The chain tightened against their waist.

“What procedure?”

The woman’s expression softened.

It wasn’t sympathy.

Sita recognized sympathy. Their mother had worn it when Sita came home after failing an exam they’d sworn they were prepared for. Their father had worn it badly, usually disguising it beneath questions about what they intended to do next.

This was something manufactured.

A facial arrangement intended to resemble kindness.

“You’ve been through a traumatic transition,” the woman said. “The treatment will help reduce distress, improve emotional regulation, and prepare you for training.”

“What treatment?”

“Medical will explain.”

“Then have medical explain before you take me inside.”

The man stepped close behind them.

“Move.”

“No.”

His hand closed around the back of Sita’s neck.

They stilled, calculating.

The grip was firm but careless. His thumb rested too close to the hinge of their jaw. His right elbow was exposed. His left knee remained the weaker one. They could drop their weight, rotate, drive the back of their head into his face, and use the chain between their wrists—

The woman spoke before they moved.

“Don’t.”

Sita looked at her.

Her practiced kindness was gone now.

“We know you’re intelligent,” she said. “We know you’ve been observing the locks. We know you’ve been counting personnel, cameras, turns, and doors. That’s one reason stabilization has been authorized so quickly.”

Their stomach tightened.

“What does that mean?”

“It means you’re exhausting yourself.”

“No.”

“You don’t have to remain vigilant anymore.”

“I don’t know where I am.”

“You’re safe.”

“I don’t know who you are. Again, you've kidnapped me.”

“We’re responsible for your care.”

“You haven’t answered a single question.”

“You’re having difficulty accepting information that conflicts with your current understanding.”

Sita stared at her.

“That sentence doesn’t mean anything.”

The woman’s mouth tightened.

The handler behind Sita shoved them through the doorway.

The room beyond was unmistakably medical even though it didn't look like any clinic Sita had ever visited.

Clinics had posters explaining symptoms. They had plastic chairs and boxes of tissues no one ever used. They had Curtains that pretended to offer privacy and nurses who introduced themselves before touching you.

This room had a narrow steel-framed bed bolted to the floor.

The mattress was covered in pale gray vinyl. Wide restraints lay open across it: wrists, upper arms, chest, hips, thighs, ankles, forehead.

There was no curtain, no second chair for family, no cabinet doors, and no objects within easy reach.

A monitor stood beside the bed, its screen already lit. An intravenous pole held three clear bags. The largest contained colorless fluid. The second was smaller and bore a printed label turned away from the door. The third was enclosed in an opaque silver sleeve.

Transparent tubing had already been primed. They’d prepared the room before Sita arrived.

A person wearing pale gray scrubs stood at the counter. They were gloved and masked. Their identification badge had been clipped backward, hiding the name and photograph against their chest.

They didn’t introduce themself. They didn’t ask Sita to confirm their name or date of birth.

They looked at the handler.

“363?”

The woman nodded.

Their attention snapped toward her.

“What did they call me?”

Neither of them answered.

The clinician turned to the monitor and tapped several commands into the screen.

The woman guided Sita another step forward.

“This is a routine intake procedure.”

Sita stared at the open restraints.

“No, it isn’t.”

“You’ve never experienced intake before.”

“I’ve experienced medical treatment.”

“You’re drawing comparisons that aren’t useful.”

“There’s a restraint for my forehead.”

“That’s to prevent accidental injury.”

“From what?”

“Movement.”

“Movement caused by what?”

The clinician picked up a sealed intravenous catheter.

Sita heard the plastic peel open and stepped backward.

The man behind them blocked the doorway.

“What’s in those bags?” they asked.

The clinician placed the catheter on a metal tray.

“Hydration and preparatory medication.”

“What medication?”

“It’ll support neurological stabilization.”

“No.”

“It isn’t necessary for you to understand the pharmacology.”

“I didn’t ask for the pharmacology. I asked what you’re putting into my body.”

“You’re becoming agitated.”

“I’m restrained in a locked room while you prepare an unidentified drug after I've been abducted from my dormitory.”

The clinician glanced at the woman.

“Subject demonstrates perseverance.”

Sita looked from one to the other.

“I can hear you.”

The clinician entered something into the tablet.

“Yes.”

“I don’t consent to this.”

The woman exhaled slowly.

“You’re not currently capable of providing informed consent.”

“I’m asking questions clearly.”

“Your resistance demonstrates that you don’t appreciate the necessity of treatment.”

“That’s circular reasoning.”

The clinician’s hands paused.

They saw the brief flicker of irritation above the mask.

Good.

Irritation was information.

It meant they understood them.

They simply didn’t care.

“I do not consent,” Sita repeated. “I’m refusing treatment. Write that down.”

The clinician tapped the screen.

“Refusal noted.”

“Then release me.”

“Treatment authorization supersedes refusal during initial stabilization.”

Sita felt something cold settle beneath their ribs.

There wasn’t going to be a point at which the right words made these people stop. They had never intended to ask permission. The explanations existed only so staff could say one had been provided.

The woman reached for the buckle at Sita’s waist.

“Get on the bed.”

“No.”

“This doesn’t need to become physically difficult.”

“It already is.”

The man reached for their upper arm.

They moved.

Sita turned into him instead of away, trapping his wrist between their body and the transport belt. They drove one shoulder into his chest and stamped toward his left knee.

The ankle chain shortened the strike. Their heel still connected.

The man shouted. His grip loosened.

Sita twisted, caught the retractable cord attached to the woman’s badge, and pulled.

The plastic reel snapped taut.

The woman staggered toward them.

Sita reached for the badge with both cuffed hands. Their fingers brushed the edge.

Someone struck them between the shoulder blades.

Their chest hit the side of the bed, causing the metal frame to rattle.

They pushed upward, using the mattress as leverage, and drove their elbow backward.

It connected with someone’s ribs.

A hand seized the back of their shirt.

Another caught a fistful of their hair near the scalp and yanked their head away from the steel rail.

“Watch the asset’s face,” the clinician said sharply. “Facial damage affects placement.”

Asset.

Placement.

Sita kicked backward.

The chain between their ankles snapped tight.

The man with the injured knee caught them around the waist and lifted them.

They threw their weight sideways and all three of them struck the bed.

The clinician moved out of the way, protecting the tray.

“Sedative?” the woman asked.

“Not before baseline readings.”

Sita’s right arm was forced behind their back.

Pressure gathered in the shoulder as they twisted it and kept twisting. Someone pinned their left leg. A forearm pressed across the back of their neck.

“Stop resisting,” the woman said near their ear.

“No.”

“You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“You’re hurting me.”

“You’re creating the force.”

Sita laughed, breathless and tired and ugly as sin.

“That’s convenient.”

The pressure on their shoulder increased. The joint stretched toward its limit.

Sita knew the anatomy. They understood the difference between pain and structural damage. They knew what would happen if the arm rotated much farther. They stopped pushing only long enough to prevent dislocation.

The handlers used the pause, lifting them onto the bed and rolling them onto their back.

The first leather restraint closed around their right wrist. The second caught their left before they could tear it free. One strap crossed their upper arms and another tightened across their chest, compressing each breath. A broad band secured their hips. Their thighs were fastened separately, then the ankles.

Sita tested each point as soon as it closed.

Right wrist: almost no rotational movement. Left wrist: two fingers of space beneath the leather, but the buckle sat beyond reach. Chest: enough room to breathe, not enough to sit forward. Hips: immobile. Right ankle: no useful slack. Left ankle: slight lateral movement.

Head—

The woman lowered a padded band across Sita’s forehead.

They jerked away.

The handler caught their jaw and held it straight while the strap was pulled tight.

The ceiling became fixed above them.

They could move their eyes and nothing else.

“Don’t touch my face,” they said.

The handler removed his hand only after the buckle had been secured.

The clinician approached the bed.

They didn’t ask whether they had allergies. They didn’t ask what medications they already took. They didn’t ask about previous reactions, family history, recent food intake, or pregnancy risk. They wrapped an elastic tourniquet around Sita’s upper arm.

Sita watched every movement.

The clinician pressed two fingers against the inside of their elbow.

“Make a fist.”

“No.”

The clinician selected a vein anyway.

A square alcohol wipe passed over their skin.

The smell cut through the room’s chemical coldness.

“Small pinch.”

“Don’t.”

The needle entered anyway.

They flinched despite themself.

The clinician advanced the catheter, withdrew the needle, and taped the line firmly into place.

“Remove it.”

No one answered.

“Remove it.”

The clinician connected the first length of tubing.

Colorless fluid entered the line.

They watched it travel toward their arm.

“What is that?”

“Saline.”

“And the other bags?”

“Medication.”

“What medication?”

The clinician glanced at the monitor.

“Blood pressure elevated.”

“I asked a question.”

The woman stood beside the bed.

“You’re safe.”

Sita turned their eyes toward her.

“No.”

“Nothing is being done to punish you.”

“That doesn’t make it safe.”

“This treatment is intended to help you.”

“Then tell me what it does.”

The clinician placed adhesive electrodes against Sita’s chest. Another set went along their temples and behind their ears.

The contact points felt cold. Wires trailed toward the monitor.

“What’re they measuring?” Sita asked.

“Neurological response.”

“To what?”

The clinician connected the line from the silver-covered bag.

The tubing was narrower than the saline line. A controlled infusion pump blinked to life.

Sita heard a soft mechanical click.

“People here call the process The Drip,” the woman said.

Sita looked at her.

“What does it do?”

“It reduces harmful fixation.”

“What does that mean?”

“It helps remove destabilizing personal attachments.”

Sita stilled. Understanding washed over them in a cold wavel.

“My memories.”

The woman didn’t confirm it. She didn’t need to.

Sita pulled against the restraints.

The bed frame shuddered.

“No.”

The clinician adjusted the infusion rate.

“No. Stop. Please.”

“Your distress is expected.”

“You’re altering my memory.”

“We’re reducing the material that’s interfering with adaptation.”

“My life isn’t material!”

“Your current identity is incompatible with placement.”

Their breath caught.

The clinician pressed a command on the pump.

The line filled.

A clear fluid moved through the tubing toward Sita’s vein.

They followed it with their eyes, watching as the distance shortened.

Forty centimeters. Thirty. Twenty.

Sita twisted their wrist against the restraint, trying to disturb the catheter.

The handler pressed their forearm flat.

“Stop the line,” Sita said, “Please.”

No one moved.

“I don’t consent.”

The medication reached the junction where the tubing met the catheter.

A narrow, unnatural chill moving into the vein spread beneath the skin of their arm.

Sita held their breath.

The clinician watched the monitor.

“Infusion started at fourteen twenty-three.”

The woman beside the bed opened the tablet.

“Begin orientation reduction.”

Sita stared at her.

“My name is Sita-Blessing Kande.”

The woman typed.

Sita said it again.

“My name is Sita-Blessing Kande.”

Their voice remained steady.

That mattered.

The cold climbed past their elbow.

“My father is Benjamin Kande.”

The woman continued typing.

“He’s a journalist.”

A picture of their dad at the dining room table, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow immediately rose in their mind. He held a pen between his fingers. A newspaper lay next to him beside a chipped cup.

Dad at the dining table.

They held into the image as best as they could.

Benjamin Kande.

Dad.

His face was long, serious even when he smiled. There were faint lines at the corners of his eyes. His left eyebrow lifted higher than the right when he suspected someone was lying.

He’d taught Sita to notice that.

Or they'd had noticed it on their own.

No, he’d taught them.

Hadn’t he?

The room shifted. The ceiling tiles stretched farther away.

Sita blinked hard, swallowing.

“My mother is Aminata Blessing.”

Their mother’s voice answered somewhere inside memory with a sound.

Warm and low.

She was in the kitchen. They could see the back of her dress, deep blue fabric patterned with yellow leaves. Steam gathered near the window and something simmered on the stove.

She was singing.

What song was it?

They desperately reached for the melody but it slipped out of their grasp.

They tried again.

There’d been a phrase she repeated when Sita was small.

French first, then—

Then what?

The thought dissolved before they could finish it.

“My mother’s name is Aminata Blessing,” Sita said again.

The words sounded farther away than before.

The clinician adjusted a sensor near their temple.

“Pupillary change noted.”

The woman entered another line into the tablet.

Sita forced themself to focus.

Facts.

Name.

Father.

Mother.

Dormitory.

Studies.

Restaurant.

The list had order. Order could be repeated.

“My name is Sita-Blessing Kande. My father is Benjamin Kande. My mother is Aminata Blessing. I’m a journalism student. I was taken from my dormitory.”

The monitor began chiming faster.

The clinician looked at the numbers.

“Heart rate rising.”

“Within expected range,” the woman said.

Sita continued.

“My name is Sita-Blessing Kande. My father is Benjamin Kande. My mother is Aminata Blessing. I’m a journalism student. I was taken from my dormitory.”

The words had rhythm. They could use rhythm. A memorized sequence could survive when ordinary thought failed.

“My name is Sita-Blessing Kande. My father is Benjamin Kande. My mother—”

Their mouth dried up. They swallowed.

“My mother is Aminata Blessing.”

The name brought back her hands. She had a small scar near one thumb and a gold band. Her nails were always trimmed short.

They remembered those hands parting their locs when they were younger, a gentle pressure against their scalp and oil warmed between their mother’s palms and a comb placed carefully on a folded cloth.

No.

Wait.

Had they worn locs then?

They could see a comb. They couldn’t see themself.

They reached for their mother’s face again.

Dark eyes.

High cheeks.

A smile—

The features blurred.

Sita pushed harder.

Mom had a gap between her front teeth.

Didn't she?

Someone did.

Maybe it had been an aunt. Or perhaps a lecturer. Or maybe a woman at the restaurant.

The memory folded in on itself and Sita’s breathing became shallow beneath the chest strap.

“Mom’s voice,” they whispered.