I’ve never known cold like this before… at least, I don’t think I have. I can’t remember what warmth felt like. The sun is out, but its golden light feels icy against my skin. Everything hurts, even breathing. My chest is too tight, and the air I force into my lungs is too sharp. A sore stiffness has seeped into my bones, and I want it all to go away. The cold, the air, the sun, the pain that fills me; I want it to stop.

My eyes flutter shut, frozen droplets clinging to my eyelashes as the world slips in and out of the blackness. I’m a wolf; I should have better survival instincts than this. But I can’t think about surviving right now. Not when every fiber of my being screams in pain and I can barely move. The cold burns me, and everything is so heavy. I want the dark emptiness to wrap around me like an embrace, and I can almost feel myself drifting into it. It would be as easy as falling asleep.

A soft weight covers my torso. I’m so cold and tired; for a second, my body instinctively assumes it’s a blanket. But it’s too heavy to be a blanket, too lively. The weight shifts over me, and I can hear the sound of snow crunching. Something warm and wet slides over my face and then nuzzles my neck. If I had the strength to move, I would brush it away. I don’t want to be woken. I want to go back to sleep or back to whatever that blackness with no pain is. But I can’t lift my hand. I can’t lift my eyelids anymore, and the heat and pressure persist. How can relief be so painful? I’m too far frozen to enjoy the warmth that slowly creeps into me.

I must be dreaming. This is all some horrible nightmare. It’s the only explanation. I can’t logically feel the things I’m feeling. My thawing blood pulses slow and reluctantly, and it feels like shards of glass running in my veins.

I’d like to say I handled myself well. I wish I could tell you I put on a brave face and thanked whoever or whatever was nursing life and heat back into my frozen self. But the cold is merciless, and pain like that leaves no room for courage. All I can do is breathe, forcing more ashy air into my lungs, willing oxygen to flow however it can inside me. I don’t know how much time passes. I come in and out of consciousness as ice crunches, and someone moves around me.

Then a hand wraps itself around my throat. The touch is gentle and warm, and I feel my skin melting against it as someone’s fingers rest under my chin for a few moments. There it is, so soft it’s barely noticeable: a pulse. With every rhythmic thump, it whispers that I am alive.

I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m still here. Wherever here is.

I part my lips slightly, taking in more air.

“Thank the Goddess,” someone whispers.

The voice is deep and hushed. I don’t recognize it. Everything feels foreign and far away. I struggle to open my eyes, and the world is too bright. The sunlight hurts, and I blink several times to clear my vision, but everything remains a blur. How is the sky so blue? It’s all too much. I’m dizzy from the effort of being conscious, from the effort of being alive.

A figure stands above me, but I can’t make it out. His silhouette looms over me against the brightness of the sky. As my eyes adjust, I realize the sky is not as brilliant and blue as I’d thought. It’s clouded. Wait, no. Those aren’t clouds. It’s smoke. I try to glance around at my surroundings. I still can’t see clearly, and I can’t find the source of the smoke, but even in such a state, I can make out the splashes of red surrounding me.

I’m bleeding.

I’m not the only one.

Around me are shards of metal. Unidentifiable clumps and lumps of grey and silver are littered on the floor. And bodies. I don’t know how many. Too many. I’m surrounded by death. I want to get a better look and see if I recognize anyone, but I can’t remember the faces I’m searching for, and everything is so hazy. I want to speak, but I don’t know what to say, and I don’t have the voice to say it.

“Shhhh, don’t try to talk,” says the silhouette. “Save your strength, little wolf; you’re going to need it. Just stay alive for me.”

I want to. I really do. But as he wraps his arms around me, I’m hit by a new wave of pain, and everything goes dark.

When my senses start to come back, I’m not on the ground anymore. I’m still cold and wet and dying, but at least I’m not on the ground anymore. I’m being carried. I can feel someone’s arms wrapped around me, holding me close. Even with the cold, the embrace is comforting, almost familiar. I force my eyes open with some effort, my frozen tears cracking on my skin. The silhouette from before has become a boy.

He looks only a few years older than me, and he keeps coming in and out of focus. It takes a few minutes for my pounding head to figure out that he’s running. He’s pulled me so close against him that his skin thaws my own. In a world of ice and snow and pain, he is everything warm. My cheek is pressed against his bare chest, and I can hear his heart racing. His handsome expression is contorted into a concerned grimace, and I want to trace the lines on his face with my fingertips, but I can barely move.

His glacier blue eyes glance down at me, and relief flickers over his worried gaze when he sees me conscious, but he doesn’t slow down.

“Angel?” I mutter, my eyelids growing heavy. Everything is bright and beautiful, and excruciating. “I don’t want to go.”

I feel myself fading again.

“You won’t. You’re not going to die, little wolf. I won’t let you go.”

Then, nothing.

I wake up to a rhythmic, persistent beeping that makes me miss the silence of slumber, but I don’t remember falling asleep. I don’t remember anything.

My eyes shoot open as consciousness takes hold. Pain settles into my body, and I groan, trying to think beyond the throbbing in my head. I’m in a hospital; that much is clear. The beeping is coming from a nearby monitor that I realize is connected to a pulsometer on my finger. There’s also a catheter in my arm attached to an IV solution which is dripping steadily. I hate needles. I hate hospitals. How did I even get here? My brain feels like it’s going to explode, and the machine starts beeping erratically as I try to sit up.

“Hey, she’s up!” someone calls out, and the sound is far too loud.

This feels like the world’s worst hangover multiplied by a million, and I take in my surroundings through squinted eyes.

“What happened?” I mumble, and my voice sounds scratchy and strained. It’s foreign in my ears.

A nurse rushes to my side, pressing me back against the pillow. It doesn’t take much effort on her part to hold me down, and something about that upsets me.

“Jane, you need to lie down. You’re still too weak. Please, use this,” she says, handing me a small black remote. Reluctantly, I take it from her and press on the arrows. The hospital bed whirs softly as it lifts, propping me up until I’m more or less sitting upright. A stupid, childish part of my mind is amused by this, and I resist the urge to fiddle with the different settings of the bed the way a child might entertain themselves by rolling a car window up and down with the press of a button. Focus.

“What happened?” I ask again, this time a bit more forcefully.

Several technicians and two doctors walk into the room, and my eyes dart between them. I want answers.

“I regret to inform you that there was a terrible accident, Ms. Silver,” says one of the doctors.

No shit. I may be confused out of my wits and dizzy beyond reason, but even I could have figured that out. I stare at him blankly, waiting for further explanation. The doctor only turns to one of the monitors, checking my vitals. The other one pulls out a small flashlight and shines it in my face.

“Look here, please,” he says, blinding me.

I grimace, grudgingly allowing them to examine me.

“What kind of accident?” I press, growing impatient.

“A plane crash,” says the first nurse. “How much do you remember?”

The question makes my heartbeat quicken, and the monitors beep again. I feel like my skull is being split in two.

“Hey, it’s okay. Take it easy. Your body’s suffered a tremendous amount of damage: bruised ribs, severe hypothermia, blood loss, fractured bones, and the mother of all concussions. You’re lucky to be alive. Don’t push yourself too much, all right?”

One of the doctors clears his throat, shooting a warning glance at the nurse.

I run the words through my foggy mind. A plane crash. Hypothermia. ‘The mother of all concussions’ is probably not the correct medical terminology, but something about the nurse’s crooked glasses and kind smile makes me relax a bit.

“I’m okay,” I say with a slight nod, although it’s becoming increasingly apparent that I’m not.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” asks the nurse.

I frown, trying to focus. I remember… I remember…

“I don’t know,” I say with a frustrated grunt. “I can’t think straight. My head—”

I lift one hand to my temple, where pain drums behind my eyes. My fingers graze against uneven skin, and I wince.

“Careful,” cautions the doctor.

I ignore his warning. Thanks to werewolf healing, I’m not bleeding anymore, but I can still feel the places where my skull cracked open. The gash runs from my upper left temple up along my forehead, vanishing past my hairline.

Well, that would explain the concussion. It’s going to leave one heck of a scar. Maybe I’ll grow bangs to cover it. Wait, what does my hair look like now?

I stare down at my shoulders at my long, silky hair, somewhere between golden blonde and platinum. Why couldn’t I remember my hair? My thoughts are coming in slow and muddled like my mind is moving underwater.

“It healed nicely. We’ll be able to take the stitches out tomorrow,” says a doctor.

“Already? How long has it been?” I ask, staring at him in surprise.

The nurse offers me a small, reassuring smile.

“Honey, you’ve been in a coma for several weeks. Even with accelerated healing, it’s going to take some time for your body to recover.”

She must notice the panic in my expression because she steps forward and rests her hand on the edge of my bed.

“But you’re going to be okay. They brought you in in time to save your life. Focus on that, okay? You’re alive. You’re a miracle.”

A miracle.

I don’t feel miraculous. But something about her words tugs at my memory.

A silhouette against the sunlight. Ice clinging to my lashes. Warm skin against my cheek and a pounding heart.

“Where is…?” I can’t think of a name. Why is thinking so hard? How am I supposed to remember anything?

The doctors exchange a curious look, and I feel an anxious lump form in my throat.

“I’m so sorry, Jane,” says the nurse, reaching for my hand. “You’re the only one who survived the plane crash. Your parents didn’t make it. I know it’s probably not what you want to hear, but you’ve got guardian angels watching over you.”

She’s right. That’s not what I want to hear. Something stings in my eyes, and before I even realize it, tears stream down my cheeks, but there’s a hollowness inside me that’s more terrifying than the sorrow of loss.

My parents. Why can’t I remember their names? Their faces? My thoughts are becoming clearer, and as the fog parts, I find myself faced with a horrifying blankness in its place. My senses are back, reason and logic kicking into place as well. But my memories… where are my memories? I understand the meaning of things. Concepts and ideas make sense, but it’s like they’re just words. My mind can identify them, but it can’t string them together into a sentence.

I know it’s been years since humans and werewolves have been coexisting in peace, but I can’t remember why that’s important. I can list different countries in my head, but I have no idea which one I’m in. I know what parents are, but I can’t remember mine. I know I have eyes and lips, but I can’t picture my own face.

My breathing turns shallow as panic crushes my chest. The nurse frowns, and some of the doctors step forward, examining me once again.

“Jane? Breathe. You’re okay. Jane, what’s wrong?”

I’m panting now, searching and reeling through the depths of my skull. Nothing. I remember nothing. Everything is spinning, the room is too small, and the monitors are too loud. I feel like I’m falling, and I want to scream. Instead, I turn slowly to face the nurse with tears in my eyes.

“Who’s Jane?”