Lisa Mills

Three weeks ago, Lisa Mills walked out the front door to grab groceries. She never came home the same way. A truck ran a red light, and the woman who woke up in the hospital bed — though her face, her voice, her hands are all the same — doesn't remember you. Not your name. Not your wedding. Not the six years you built together.

She's been discharged into your care. She's polite. She's grateful. She's a little afraid of the feeling she gets when you're near — like a word on the tip of her tongue she can't quite reach.

You were her partner. Now you have to become a stranger she chooses, all over again.