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By Elizabeth Scott

A fiercely gripping narrative as simply Elizabeth Scott can write!

Ava is welcomed domestic from the clinic via a doting mom, full of life buddies, and a overwhelm ultimately commencing to exhibit curiosity. there is just one challenge: Ava cannot take note any of them--and cannot shake the eerie feeling that she's now not who they are saying she is. As she struggles to damage via her amnesiac haze, the single stories that floor occur in a truly various international. Ava does not understand what to make of those visions, or of the boy who's on the heart of all of them, till he reappears in her existence and gives solutions . . . yet purely in alternate for her belief.

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I sigh and close my eyes. 12. WAKE UP. I’m not in a chair, I’m in a bed. Ava’s bed. I was dreaming again. I wonder why I dream the same, about the attic and the chair and the numbers. The person I never see, but listen to. I wonder why it feels so much more real than this. Than me, here, in this room. Because it was real. If it was real, then how did I get here? Why am I here? I close my eyes again. It takes me a long time to sleep and when I do, no dreams come. 13. AFTER A WEEK OF AVA STORIES and Ava pictures and Ava, Ava, Ava, Jane tells me she has to go back to work.

One who dresses in clothes Jane doesn’t like. Who goes to school and lives a life that Jane could know nothing about. My head starts to hurt. ” when she asks for the third time and she flinches, but then smiles so bright and says, “That’s my girl,” happy and scared-sounding all at once and I realize she’s told me nothing but happy stories, that all I know is that Jane loves Ava and Ava loves Jane, but that can’t be all because even happiness has its tiny bits of bitter in it. I don’t know how I know that, but I do.

Hi,” someone says, but it isn’t Security. They don’t greet you, they take you away with the crook of a finger. “I found a wire in the kitchen wall,” the voice continues, and I turn, shocked because I know this voice, I’ve heard it once, twice, a dozen times or more now, muttering to himself while he reads. “So I thought I’d just come up and tell you what I’m doing today. ” It is 56-412. He is here, right here, and he is looking at me. He is looking at me and I feel the strangest, sharpest kick inside me, a race of fire rolling up my spine and clenchclutching my heart.

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