“I wish I could remember,” he murmured one night, his voice hoarse.
I reached for his hand, careful of the burns. “It’s okay,” I whispered. “I remember enough for both of us.”
But something was off. It started subtly—the way he hesitated when I mentioned a childhood memory, how he seemed distant when I talked about our favorite song. And then there were the questions.
“You said I have a dog… what’s his name again?”
I smiled. “Maverick. He’s been staying with my parents while you were gone.”
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