They slept in the same motel room, for safety's sake. A dingy brown room with two beds. There was a fake name in the register. Claire didn't care about unpacking. She pulled her face wash and toothbrush out of her bag halfheartedly, and a little piece of paper flew out with them. She bent to pick it up. It was a note from her mother, sneaked in while she helped her pack, before the Haitian took her knowledge of what was going to happen.

She read the words of love, immortal even if it was blind, or in this case, amnesiac. She locked herself in the bathroom and took a shower so she could hide her tears under its water, her sobs under its noise.

When she came out, he was already in bed, eyes closed. She knew he must have a heart, because why else would he have helped her? But his face never showed anything. His dark skin stood out garishly against the sheets, but his face revealed nothing new in sleep.

She got in bed, using the tiptoeing skills she had honed when she sneaked out with Zach before. She pushed thoughts of Zach away and forced her eyes to close.

She woke up a few hours later, screaming like a horror movie victim. She had dreamed of everyone she loved dying while she lived on, on, on, for years, alone, immortal and unable to save anyone. She was used to blood and gore on herself now, but not other people. It took a minute before she realized that she was in bed, tangled in musty hotel sheets, pulling her hair as though she could pull the thoughts out of her head.

And then, kneeling beside her, was the one who could. He had slipped out of bed, silent as a shadow.

"What's wrong?" He had such a whispery voice. He wasn't used to using it.

"Just… a bad dream," she gasped, trying to sound normal and utterly failing.

"Do you want me to take it?"

She hesitated for a moment, cautious by instinct against losing anything from her mind, but then she gave in to the promised relief of it. "Yes. Please."

She saw his hand moving gently toward her face, and it reminded her of the time she got baptized in her church back home, the pastor's hand moving to cover her nose before he bent her back into the water, washing her clean, oblivion.

It only took a moment. In the moment after the hazy moment, she asked him what she had been wondering. "What happens to the memories after you take them?"

His face stayed blank, but he looked down at the floor. She got a horrible feeling, reached out to grab his arm. "Tell me. Please."

"Nothing," he whispered, and for a moment she felt relieved, then she understood, and felt horrible.

"Do you keep them all?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he gently removed her hand from his arm, so gently it seemed more like a caress than the rebuff it was. He walked across the room and turned off his lamp. She heard the rustle as he slid between the sheets.

"Do you have a name?" she asked, speaking boldly into the darkness.

She heard him shift on the bed. "Good night, Claire." Always so quiet.

She closed her eyes, accepting the darkness. She was safe, here, in this room. A quiet haven, full of other people's mistakes, where both lost children could sleep in peace.