What she remembered was her eyes flashing open, walkers upon her, and a stranger's name on her lips. She remembered blood dripping down her face and the back of her neck, blood on her hands when she touched the wound. The blood was a beacon to the undead.

She knew nothing other than that she needed help.

"Daryl!" She'd cried out, only to collapse back to the asphalt.

Only to wake up later wondering who the hell was Daryl and why she'd screamed for him.

She wondered what she looked like before the scars.

"Did you hear me?"

The man, Dr. Edwards, was sitting by her bed on a small metal stool with a clipboard in hand. When she flicked her eyes to his through the mirror and turned back to face him, he gulped under her intense glare. Full of contempt, of malice.

"Do you remember your name?"

"No," she says firmly, wondering why that's been the most important question these past few days. She knew, somehow, that she was supposed to have a name, but she couldn't recall it. "Do you?"

Dr. Edwards smiled briefly, knowing that she simply wanted the answer. "Yes. But I was hoping you would on your own."

She wandered back to her bed. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize," he said. "Do you remember anything from before your accident?"

Accident. She touched the small, circular scar on her left temple with a tiny wince.

"I remember a man," she confessed.

Dr. Edwards brightened slightly. "Really? What did he look like?"

But she just shook her head and turned to look in the mirror again. At her scars. At her increasingly skinnier frame.

"I'm not sure," she lied.

The man in her memory was her only secret, her only comfort, and it would be kept that way.