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This place has all the trappings of a seedy motel room. It even smells like it. Stale. Unkempt. Even the mattress smells bad, covered by a grimy gray sheet.

I stagger to the sink. My head feels heavy. Everything seems to be vibrating from side to side. I feel like I’ve been drugged. I look into the mirror.

The face staring back is completely unfamiliar.

But this is me. Male. Seventeen. Maybe eighteen. Short cropped brown hair. Brown eyes. A small scar on the left side of my chin. I’m wearing a blue and white striped t-shirt. Gray jacket. Faded blue jeans. My shoes are clean, though worn.

Then I examine my hands. Not working hands. Not someone who’s used to outdoor labor. I’m probably still at school.

Wherever that is.

But I still have one overriding question.

Who am I?

I turn around to survey the room and discover something so unexpected I fall back in surprise and almost dislodge the sink completely from the wall.

A man is lying on the floor.

As I was a few minutes earlier, he is face up and staring at the ceiling. Unlike me, he has a wound in his side, possibly a bullet wound. Blood seeps from it. His eyes are open and staring. More blood stains his mouth.

He is lying so close to the bed, I can see why I didn’t notice him earlier. Did I do this? Did I harm this man? I don’t see a weapon. Regardless, I have to help him in whatever way I can. Kneeling beside him, I gently pull his shirt apart to examine the wound. I don’t know wounds – no medical training springs to mind – but it looks bad. I reach into my pocket and find a handkerchief. Pushing it hard against the injury, the man’s eyes shift to me.

“It’s okay,” I tell him. “I’m going to get help.”

He shakes his head. Tries to speak. Fails.

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