Into the Storm by Melanie Moreland

found her. But she was adamant in her dislike.
    She could not, however, tell me where she had gone to school, the names of any friends, and no matter what female name I threw at her, none struck a spark or made her even pause. She couldn’t recall the name of a boyfriend or husband. Part of me was relieved at that piece of information. We talked about different careers, but nothing seemed to break through to her memory. She could rattle off the names of books she had read, movies she had seen, but nothing personal. No information that would give me a clue where to start looking for her identity.
    I looked down at the paper I had been scribbling furiously on. I just kept throwing out questions and jotting down notes. It was both an exercise in trying to help her jog a memory as well as a way not to look at her too often and keep my hands busy. I would glance at her as she would close her eyes at times and seem to try and search her mind for an answer but would avert my gaze when I would see her eyes start to flutter open. Her eyes saw too much. I couldn’t let her see how I was struggling right now.
    We were both quiet as I looked over the various things I had written down. I was trying to find something, anything, that could tell me who she was but nothing leapt out at me. Sighing, I put the pad and pen on the table in front of me. I stood up and went to the window looking out at the snow that was still falling. It was hard to tell how heavy it was with the strong wind blowing it around.
    “ How long have you lived here?”
    I started at the sudden question and turned to face her. “Five years.”
    “ What do you do … for a living?”
    “ I’m a writer.”
    She sat up. “What do you write?”
    I grinned, teasing her. “Books.”
    I was rewarded with one of her shy smiles.
    “ What kind of books? Would I have read any of them?”
    “ My last one might actually help you,” I said thoughtfully.
    “ Really? What was it?”
    I turned back to the window. “How to be a better career criminal for dummies,” I said, biting my lip to stop from laughing.
    I never saw the cushion coming, but certainly felt it hit me squarely in the back of the head.
    Laughing, I turned around. “I’ll add possible pitcher to your list of maybes, Rabbit.”
    “ Just for that, I’m on strike,” Rabbit sniffed, crossing her arms. “I’m not cooking again today.”
    I continued to laugh as I placed the cushion back on the sofa. “Not a problem. Dinner’s on me tonight.”
    “ Better be good,” she mumbled.
    Grateful I had diverted her questions, I retreated to the kitchen to make dinner. I turned the radio on to see if there were any updates on the storm, and of course, any updates on a missing woman. I was strangely relieved not to hear any news on that front. My mind laughed at me. When she showed up, I could hardly wait to get her off my property and now I was dreading news of a way for her to leave.
    Rabbit wandered in and, without asking, began to assemble the salad. She set the table and soon we were ready to eat. She looked down at her plate in disbelief as I sat down beside her. “What?” I asked.
    “ You don’t really expect me to eat all this meat do you?” she asked skeptically.
    “ You don’t eat enough. You leave more food on your plate than you eat,” I said firmly. “You need your strength.”
    She looked down for a minute and then back at me. Her eyes were sad. “I feel like that is what I’m supposed to do. I don’t think I eat very much.” She shrugged self-consciously. “I get the feeling …” her voice trailed off.
    “ What? Tell me.”
    “ I don’t think I’m … allowed to. Like it’s a rule.”
    I felt the anger building again. Something or someone had ingrained that so deeply in her mind that she could follow that rule but not remember who she was or why she was doing it.
    “ New rule, Rabbit. You eat what you want and however much you want. Don’t stop because you think you have to;