"No. NO!"

I wake, screaming. A violent sweat rips me from the clutch of my nightmare and drops me back in my bed. The hospital gown clings to my body. The sheets are damp with perspiration.

I lie back on the pillow and fan myself with the blanket, replaying the scene in my head.

I was running. I heard voices, quiet voices, and I was running away from them. I could smell the ocean and feel its salty spray tickling my cheeks. The ground was barely visible and very slippery. I kept stumbling and the voices kept following.

Then I woke up.

None of it makes sense. I can't remember anything before the forest and no one here seems to know who I am. I haven't seen anything recognizable –no landmarks or familiar buildings. There aren't even real buildings here. No roads or cars or traffic lights or state signs. No signs at all –unless you count the outdated street names carved into wooden pickets.

The clock above the station ticks away. 5:09. I am drenched in sweat but my throat is dry as parchment. The slender candle Tria lit last night has been reduced to a sad stub.

I stare at the ceiling, at the waxy droplets, and the shadows on the wall of candles that haven't died yet. Across the aisle, the screaming patients rattle their bed cages, jumping, shrieking, and clambering about. It's animalistic. I wonder what's wrong with them.

I take another swig of my pain reliever. The only pain that remains is from my headache.

I stare at my feet. At the foot of my bed, a tan tri-fold pamphlet is leaning against a stack of fresh bandages.

"It came in this morning," says Tria, watching me from the wall.

I look up at her and then back at the pamphlet. She walks over and hands me the folded parchment.

"Here." She hands it to me. "It may help you better understand..."

Understand what? –Is what I wish I could say. But I don't. I stay mute as she redresses my bandages.

The paper is thick, but soft. Sketched in brown ink along the top is Welcome, Unidentified No. 1399. The bottom reads Administered by Refinery, est. Kemper 2701. On the front is a picture of a sculptured waterwheel mill with protruding steel rods and iron spigots.

The entire pamphlet is handwritten, or at least it seems to be, in a neat uniformed script. Each new section has its own bold-print header. There are Rules, Registration, Evaluation, Treatment & Care, and Discharge.

"It looks official, I know. I promise it's not nearly as intimidating as it seems," Tria says.

I focus on the headlines.

It's a pamphlet for something called a refugee, but why are they showing me this? It makes no sense. I roll the paper back to the front and stare at No. 1399.

I pull back the sleeve of my hospital gown and stare at the purple tag fastened to my left forearm. Same number. No mistake here, this pamphlet is certainly intended for me.

"You are confused, aren't you?" Tria asks, refilling the glass of water on my bedside table.

She stares between the pamphlet in my hands and the quizzical look on my face.

"Oh don't worry. They hand those out to everyone. Someone will come and explain everything to you in person. We just need to clear your medical state first and have you registered."

Clear me? Register me? I glance at the word refugee once more and a sinking feeling resonates.

"Is this –I mean, am I?" I gasp a barely audible sound. I avoid the pain caught in my chest.

This is my first real attempt to talk since I arrived at the hospital. Actually, it's the first time since I tried to talk in the wagon.

Tria looks up from her paperwork. "Slow down. Take deep breaths and start from the beginning."

"Is this me?" I ask.

My voice is scratchy, like it's stuck in my throat and clawing to get out. It's also startling, like hearing a long lost stranger speak for the first time, new but vaguely familiar.

Her eyes narrow on the word my finger is pointing to. A cautious smile parts her lips.

"Yes." She nods.

My throat closes up. My head starts pounding as my brain starts blurring.

I'm a refugee. But where?

Why can't I remember anything? Why am I missing half my neck? My breathing is strained and my chest starts heaving. Patient No. 9's screams pierce my ears like angry thunder. My fist clenches the wad of paper. Tears set in the corners of my eyes, drowning my vision.

I can't be here.

"Don't cry. It's all going to be fine, you'll see." Tria strokes the top of my head.

But she doesn't know that. She can't know it.

"You will have answers soon." She smiles. "All in due course of time."

Answers.

10:15. The nurses' station is empty and the rest of the room is quiet. Someone has stocked my bedside table.

The pain reliever is gone. Instead, I see a strange, opaque glass filled to the brim with a pale purple liquid. It has a smooth consistency, like syrup and smells like something herbal.

A lumpy napkin sits beside the glass. I unwrap it and find a thin granola oat bar.

Food.

I hadn't had time to realize how hungry I was.

I devour the bar in three bites but it leaves me wanting more. Distracting my grumbling stomach, my eyes flicker to a bundle of paper propped against the candle stub on my bedside table.

Another pamphlet.

My stomach aches. I'm going to lose track of the count. It looks almost identical to the first one, only there are more pages and the front is different.

I flip through the first few sections and notice, again, this pamphlet is handwritten or it appears to be anyway. It falls open to the first page.

Preparation is written across the top in bold.

Preparation for what?

On the next page, I find a detailed schedule titled Itinerary. It has an outline of the next week. Somehow I know it's my new schedule.

The Itinerary is filled with words and places I've never heard before. And here I thought this was supposed to supply me with answers.

My eyes return to the pamphlet in my hands. On the cover, an emblem is lithographed into the paper: A large K is enclosed in a neat circle surrounded by a square.

"Rest is serving you well," Tria says, arriving at my bedside.

Her presence diverts my thoughts back to the Refinery. She fumbles with the gauze pad taped over my neck and switches it out for a new bandage.

"You look well," she says. "You're regaining color and the swelling has gone down. You don't need any more gauze pads, but I am going to keep it bandaged. It is just to fight off infection," Tria reassures me, catching my frown.

"Thank you." I smile. I look up and watch as she reviews her notepad. "Will I be released today?"

"That remains to be determined. Doctor Bishop will retrieve you shortly. Have you, um, looked over your itinerary?" She looks at the pamphlet next to my hands.

"Yes, I've looked it over and over again." My voice is stronger now, but still hoarse.

"You have a little over an hour." Her eyes flicker to the clock.

I squish the paper in my hands. This is all I have to look forward to now –following other peoples' schedules.

I still have questions but I don't have much to work with. There are no windows in this place; there are no radios or TVs or monitors. I have no idea where I am. The Itinerary is the only thing concrete.

"Do you want to clean up a bit? I can take you," Tria says.

"Can I shower?" I ask, hopeful.

Tria frowns. "We don't have a shower in the Refinery, I'm afraid, but there's a washtub in the back room."

"Let's go!" I almost shout.

"Very well, come on." Tria almost laughs helping me out of bed and across the stony floor.

I am taller than she is and I can tell from her meek hands that I must be stronger too, even with my impaired stature.

"This way," she says, steering me sideways.

We cross the aisle, past the caged beds, and past the station, which I notice does not have any computers or screens, just a tall pile of recycled paperwork stacked on the counter.

"Here we are."

Tria stops short of a narrow door just off the Refinery.

The washroom is bright and spacious, with porcelain walls and a light in the center of the room. A cast iron tub, the old-fashioned kind, sits in the middle of the floor.

Tria twists the two faucets on the wall above the countertop and the tub leaps to life, filling up from the bottom. She unwraps my hospital gown and assists me into the tub.

"Careful. In you go." She helps lift my bruised elbow for me.

I stare at the ceiling – at the singular light fixture hanging above my head. Come to think of it, it's the only electric light I've seen yet.

The counter top is cluttered with an array of jars, cups, dishes and thin glass pipes. Each vessel holds its own prize –liquids, soaps, pastes, powders, and leaves of every color. Each is labeled in the same font.

"Is the water temperature comfortable?" She asks, adjusting the knob.

"Mmm." I sigh.

Tria empties a spoonful of something shimmering into the tub and bubbles proliferate instantly, overflowing onto the floor.

A bronzed antique bowl that seems to be glowing green, catches my eye.

"Tria, what does that do?"

She pulls the bowl closer. It is a ceramic dish that looks like it could have been made from clay; it's been painted with a light green glaze. Engraved into the side is a single word: Eucalyptus.

"It's ground leaves of the eucalyptus plant. It's supposed to help relax the muscles and relieve joint pain. Can't hurt," she smirks. She digs a small spoon into the cream and empties it onto her palm.

"Swipe away your hair."

Pent-up tension escapes my body. The odors of sweat and blood are wiped away, replaced by a minty pine aroma.

I'm back in my bed, clean at last, and feeling especially indebted to Tria.

"Doctor Bishop will be down in half an hour to collect you," Tria says.

She sits on the end of the bed, combing knots from my long hair. After a few more minutes, Tria places the porcelain comb beside my bed and gets to her feet. "Is there anything else I can get you while you wait?"

"Thank you but I'm alright," I say.

The clock shows 11:34. I am growing more anxious by the minute, alive with both nausea and excitement. In a short amount of time I will have all the answers to all of my questions.

/ / /

It's 12:04. Only two of us wait in the briefing room.

Dr. Bishop has gone to search for someone. We were retrieved from the Refinery and brought here. The other refugee is a girl, much younger than I am in age. She has dark brown, almost black hair and scared eyes. She cannot be any older than 10.

She's huddled in the corner of the room, her eyes fixated on the door. Our cozy proximity allows me to read the red tag on her arm. Anna. Poor Anna is scared and confused. We are very much alike in this, only I am able to disguise it.

"Hi, Anna," I say quietly.

She stares back, silent apart from her sniffling.

"Are you okay?" I whisper again, careful not to frighten her, but just then the door swings open.

"Good afternoon! I see you two have met." A tall man with a graying crew cut walks into the room.

He has a medium muscle tone with widespread shoulders, emulating a very ex-marine persona. His clothes are dark brown with patches of shiny black. He's on the older side, though like Marie is handsome for his age. I place him at 50.

"I am Tin Burke Smyth and I will be your voucher for the Evaluation process. Doctor Bishop has already consulted with me on your conditions and backgrounds. However, I am looking forward to getting to know both of you even better."

"Anna." Tin Smyth walks over to the younger girl and reaches out his hand.

She whimpers again and turns away, running across the room to my side. I place a hand on her shoulder. His eyes find mine and I can feel his concern penetrating my shield.

"Hello, there. Doctor Bishop tells me you've been handling yourself exceptionally well." He extends his forearm and waits for me to accept his hand.

"Hello." I am courteous and crisp, the way I always am with strangers. Or think I always am with strangers. "I'm afraid the doctor gives me too much credit."

Tin Smyth moves around the conference table. I study his features again and notice a jumble of scars stretching along his left arm up to his jaw line. He pulls a chair and sits down opposite me. Anna still clings to my side.

"I am sure you have a plethora of questions." He pauses and keeps his eyes resting on mine.

It's time for answers. As it is clear to the both of us that Anna's mind is elsewhere, Smyth directs his next words at me.

"Before we get started, I'd like to make sure you are acquainted with the situation." He looks at me.

I nod.

"Without getting too involved too quickly, I will just start with saying that you are a refugee in our land," he pauses. "You've been chosen and sent to us. I only wish it could remain that simple."

His eyes study mine, no doubt reading whether or not we are on the same page. I nodded for him to continue.

"This marvelous dwelling is known as Kemper. As I said, I am Tin Burke Smyth. My two fellow tinmen and I oversee all refugees while they undergo the evaluation process," he pauses again. "Do you understand why the Evaluation is necessary?"

No. But I don't admit this. Instead, I nod.

"It is a precaution to ensure that you are of no harm to yourself or to our town. After all, the resurfacing can take a lot out of one person." He smiles at us. "We welcome all newcomers and hope each refugee passes their initial Evaluation."

Dr. Bishop gives us each a sheet of paper and pencil to take notes with. Tin Smyth lists sporadic tidbits here and there of things we should know. Next on the Itinerary: the Registry.

It was a short walk from the briefing room to the Registry and the visit only lasted 10 minutes. A heavyset man with a balding head sat behind the counter. The nametag attached to his green shirt said C. Joe.

Joe gave both Anna and me a stiff cardboard green square before sending us on our way. It covered the basics: my estimated age, eye color, and height. Of course where there should have been a name, there was Unidentified 1399. It's my very own green card.