He came back the next night with paper and a pen.

Not just any paper — a proper pad of it, the kind with a stiff backing that could be written on without a hard surface underneath, the kind that suggested he had thought about the logistics of their situation between last night and tonight and had gone to the campus bookstore or somewhere like it and made a specific purchase for a specific purpose. Iris watched him come down the path from the main quad with the even footsteps she had already learned to recognize, the headphones at his collarbone, the paper pad under one arm, and she felt something that she was slowly relearning the name for: anticipation.

She had been at the lake since midnight. She was always at the lake before him — partly because she had nowhere else she particularly needed to be and partly because she had found, in the hours since last night, that she did not want to risk the possibility of arriving and finding the bank empty. This was irrational. He had said he would come back. In her limited experience of him, he said what he meant. But she had been disappointed enough times in the year before him that irrationality had become a reasonable response to hope.

He sat down in the same spot as last night — a small depression in the grass where the bank curved slightly inward, sheltered from the wind off the water. He set the pad on his knee and uncapped the pen and looked at her.

"Blink code," he said. "One blink for yes, two for no. We can go faster than last night."

She looked at him.

"It'll take longer to explain than to try," he said. "Blink once if you understand."

She blinked once.

He nodded. "Good." He looked at the pad. "Can you see this from there?"

One blink.

"Close enough to read if I hold it up?"

One blink.

"Then I'll write questions and you blink the answers. If you want to say something I'm not asking, we go back to letter-by-letter, but we use the blink for each letter instead of pointing — I call the alphabet and you blink when I hit the right one. Slower but quieter."

She blinked once.

He wrote the first question on the pad in clear block letters and held it up: ARE YOU IN PAIN.

She considered this carefully. Not physical pain — that was with her body in the hospital, and her body's pain was a separate thing she received secondhand, distantly, like a report from a country she was no longer in. But the other kind. She blinked once.

He wrote: IS IT CONSTANT.

Two blinks.

WORSE AT CERTAIN TIMES.

One blink.

He wrote: WHEN. Then beneath it: I'LL CALL OPTIONS. BLINK FOR THE RIGHT ONE.

He said: "At night." She blinked. "Near other people." She blinked. "Near your body." She blinked twice — not the hospital specifically, but she blinked once after a pause when he added: "Near the hospital where your body is." Closer.

He wrote it all down without comment.

Then he wrote: HOW DO YOU COMMUNICATE NORMALLY. ANY WAY OTHER THAN THIS.

She blinked twice. Then, because the question deserved a fuller answer, she began the letter-by-letter — she blinked while he called the alphabet, slowly at first and then faster as they found their rhythm, and what emerged was: ONLY WITH YOU.

He read it. Set the pad down for a moment.

"In a year," he said. Not a question — he was confirming.

One blink.

He picked the pad back up. Wrote: YOU SAID IRIS THORNE. HOW DO I FIND YOUR BODY.

She had not expected this question so directly, so soon. She had expected the kind of careful, considerate building-up-to-it that people did when they were trying not to alarm someone, the gradual approach, the management of the moment. He had skipped all of that and gone straight to: *how do I find you.* As though finding her were the logical next step and the only question was the logistics.

She blinked the letters: CRESTHAVEN MEMORIAL. THIRD FLOOR. ROOM 312.

He wrote it down.

She added: THEY THINK IM IN A COMA.

He wrote: ARE YOU.

She considered. SORT OF. BODY IS. IM NOT.

He wrote: WHAT HAPPENED.

This was the question she had been turning over for a year and still did not have a complete answer to. She blinked: I DONT KNOW. ONE NIGHT I WAS THERE AND THEN I WASNT.

He wrote: EXACTLY ONE YEAR AGO.

One blink.

WRITE THE DATE IF YOU REMEMBER IT.

She blinked: OCTOBER 14.

He wrote it down and underlined it. She watched him do this — the underlining, the small gesture of emphasis that meant: this is important, this goes in a different category from the surrounding information. She had not had anyone put anything she said in a different category from the surrounding information in a very long time.

He looked up from the pad. "Are you getting weaker?"

She blinked once.

"How do you know?"

She pointed at the lake's surface — at her reflection, which was visible from where he sat if he looked at the correct angle. He looked. A pause while he took in what he was seeing — the dimness, the uncertain edges, the lavender that had faded toward grey.

"Your reflection," he said.

One blink.

"It's fading."

One blink.

He wrote: WHAT MAKES IT WORSE. Beneath it: WHAT MAKES IT BETTER.

She thought about this carefully. Worse: the nights she spent the most time near her body, watching the monitors, the nights when the hospital was very quiet and she could feel the distance between herself and the thing in the bed most acutely. Worse: the days when no one on campus looked in her direction, not even accidentally. Worse: the specific loneliness of being in a crowd and being entirely, perfectly invisible.

Better: the copper beech. Better: sitting in the library stacks listening to the sounds of people working even when they couldn't see her. Better: last night.

She blinked the better things. He wrote them without comment. When she finished he looked at the list and at one item in particular — the one she had saved for last.

LAST NIGHT, she had blinked.

He looked at it. He did not say anything about it. He wrote: UNDERSTOOD.

Then he turned to a new page and wrote: I WANT TO UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU NEED TO STAY STABLE. TELL ME WHAT YOU KNOW.

Iris looked at this for a long moment. The question had a quality she kept encountering in him: it was not what she had expected. She had expected, when she let herself imagine being found — which she had done, occasionally, as a kind of thought experiment she always aborted before it became too much — something more dramatic. Something with more emotion in it. What she got instead, consistently, was this: *I want to understand what you need.* Practical. Forward-looking. Taking her seriously not as a phenomenon but as a person with requirements that could be identified and addressed.

She blinked: I NEED TO BE REMEMBERED.

He wrote it down.

BY WHO.

ANYONE. BUT IT HAS TO BE REAL. NOT JUST THINKING OF ME AS THE GIRL IN ROOM 312.

He wrote: WHAT DOES REAL MEAN.

She thought. REMEMBERING ME. IRIS. NOT THE BODY. ME.

He read this twice. She could tell by the way his eyes moved back to the beginning of the line.

Then he wrote: I REMEMBER YOU. IRIS THORNE. LAVENDER HAIR. SAT ON THE WATER. COULDN'T SLEEP. ONE YEAR.

He held up the pad.

She read it. Read it again.

He had written her. Not the body in room 312, not the girl in the coma, not the medical fact of her situation. He had written: *lavender hair. sat on the water. couldn't sleep.* He had written the things he had observed — the things that were specifically her, the details that wouldn't appear on any chart in Cresthaven Memorial.

She blinked the letters slowly: HOW DID YOU KNOW THE HAIR.

He looked at her. A slight tilt of his head — almost amused, in the way she was beginning to recognize as his version of amusement. "I can see you," he said. "Your hair is lavender. It's lighter than it looks in the water."

She looked at the lake's reflection. At the grey-lavender that looked back at her.

He said: "The reflection is dimmer than you. You should know that."

She looked at him.

"You're clearer than the reflection makes you look," he said. And then, with the matter-of-fact quality that was becoming familiar: "Just so you know."

Iris sat on the lake bank across from a person who had told her she was clearer than her reflection made her look, and she felt something happen in the vicinity of the warmth she had been cautiously maintaining since last night. It got larger. She did not have a sufficiently precise vocabulary for it yet. She was working on it.

They worked for two more hours. The pad filled. He called the alphabet and she blinked and what accumulated on the pages was the roughest possible sketch of a year — the first weeks of displacement, the slow understanding of what had happened, the months of attempting and failing to affect the physical world, the specific loneliness of the library stacks, the copper beech. She told him about October 14 as best she understood it — going to sleep in her own bed in her off-campus apartment and then being here, between, with no clear transition and no clear cause. She told him about the thread, the way she understood it: thin, present, and thinning.

He wrote all of it down. He asked follow-up questions when he had them and did not ask when he didn't. He did not tell her things were going to be fine.

Around three-thirty he stretched his neck and looked at the sky. "I have an eight o'clock class."

She blinked: GO.

"I'll come back tomorrow." He closed the pad, capped the pen. Then he looked at her across the few feet of bank between them and said: "Don't forget me between now and then."

She stared at him.

He said it again, differently — quieter, with the quality of something he meant: "I'm serious. Keep me in your — wherever you keep things. Whatever the equivalent is."

She understood what he was doing. He was establishing himself in her memory the same way he had said he would hold her in his. He was making it reciprocal. He was treating the mechanics of her survival as something that went both ways.

She blinked once. Firmly.

"Good," he said.

He stood and picked up his bag and walked back across the dark campus, and Iris sat on the bank and watched him go and held, in whatever served as her memory in this state, the specific image of a person who had just said: *don't forget me.*

As though he were the one at risk of fading.

As though the forgetting might go both ways.

She thought, for a long time after he had gone, about what it meant that he had said it that way — not *I won't forget you* but *don't forget me.* Making himself the vulnerable one. Giving her something to do, something to hold, something that meant her remembering had value beyond her own survival.

The reflection in the lake looked back at her.

It was the same dimness.

But she held his face in her mind — dark hair, grey eyes, headphones, the way he called the alphabet without impatience, the way he wrote *lavender hair* as though it were worth noting — and she thought: *I have something to do now.*

*I have someone to remember.*