We met back in the briefing room with Tin Smyth andDr. Bishop, where we were introduced to two Committee of Refugee Integration Services board members: Katherine Kline and Charles Caine.

The C.R.I.S. is responsible for the refugees' integration into this new society. It consists of 10 members, all of whom rotate turns representing refugees and overseeing the Evaluations. Board Members Kline and Caine, along with my voucher Tin Smyth, will oversee my hearing. Of course, I have no idea what any of the aforementioned actually means.

Kline, a grouchy woman nearing 60, is tall and slender and wears a navy suit. She shook my hand with caution and judgment, and never smiled, not even once throughout the entire session. Her only response to my questions consisted of head nods and rapid blinking. She sat there blankly staring, a villainous predator.

Caine wasn't so much rude as he was disinterested. He is a short stout man with dark gray hair, probably about 50. He was humdrum and boring, but did, however, answer my questions with feigned enthusiasm. He got points for pretending to care.

The Inquiry didn't take as long as I had expected. Anna has barely spoken since her arrival, which was just one day before my own. She didn't ask any questions, but that was as I expected. As for me, a few questions have been answered, but several still remain.

I was in an accident, most likely a plane crash or an automobile wreck. I died or almost died, I think. Now, I am a refugee in some town called Kemper, most likely somewhere outside the U.S. by the looks of it. I have no identification so my origin remains a mystery. That's why I'm here. I need to be treated and evaluated before I can be released.

/  /  /

I go down the hall to the examination room where Bishop and her aide prod and poke my skin for what seems like hours. Afterwards, a thin male nurse ushers me to a smaller room with lighter walls and a fresh, antibacterial scent.

Two folders, one red and one blue, rest side-by-side on the table. The red folder has a tiny white sticker that says physiological and the blue folder says psychological. The nurse sits in the chair across from me and folds his arms.

"I will be conducting the psychological testing portion of your pre-evaluation examination," he pauses. "My name is Michael."

I raise my eyes to his and nod in recognition. He has the same tan skin as the nurse upstairs and his features are boyish. Michael cannot be much older than I am, probably 18 at the most. I notice he is waiting for me to reply.

"Hello, Michael."

"This test is a sort of therapy. It's been carefully designed to activate certain chambers of your mind, stimulating memory recovery. It will most likely help you remember some of what you knew before your accident," he pauses again, hesitant.

I nod.

"Your mind and body have been through a traumatic experience. Certain words or sounds, even smells, can act as catalysts. They can trigger our brains to remember things we've either suppressed or buried." He pauses. "Are you following me?"   

"Yes." I nod, again, for him to continue, though something tells me a smell isn't going to stir up my dormant memories.

"There are no guarantees but chances are you will regain the small things –your age and your name, maybe even your birthday. This is only the first session. After time you will begin to remember what you look like and where you used to live –and what year you, uh, think it is. Are you ready for this?"

"Yes." I manage a courteous smile. So this is therapy.

I will try anything to remember my name or how old I am. I was told during the primary testing in the medical examination room that I'm estimated to be age 15. Sounds about right. I don't feel any younger or older.

"First, I am going to ask a primary question set. This is intended to wake your mind and test your rudimentary knowledge of everyday life. Next, I will show you pictures and request that you provide descriptions. Lastly, I will place three different vials in front of you, each one with a different content. This triggers the limbic system in your brain, which allows you to associate smells with memories." Michael flips through the sheets of paper.

Again, I say, "okay."

"If at any time you should wish to stop, please let me know." He opens to a page with black ink and tiny numbered questions. He marks the date and time in the corner of the page, then signs his name and turns the sheet around to me.

"Do you remember how to write?" He asks. I flex my right hand and nod. "Just sign your number, then." He nods his head at the purple tag on my left forearm.

I'd almost forgotten it was there. He hands me what looks like a lean wood chip with a lead center. What a strange pencil. I grip the tiny branch and press firmly onto the signature line: No. 1399.

"Excellent, shall we get started?" Michael pulls the papers back to him and reads the first question aloud. "Please correct the following sequence so that it reflects ascending order: middle-age, adolescence, infancy, old age."

"Infancy, adolescence, middle-age, old age." I say confidently. He scribbles something down.

"And what is the primary substance we drink?" He checks off another question.

"Water." My voice is shaky.

"Wonderful. Do you know the name of your hometown?" he looks up, hesitant.

"No." I shake my head.

"No worries. People hardly ever get that on the first try. Just figured I'd ask." Michael smiles.

We run through a few more questions about brushing teeth, counting fingers and reading newspapers. Finally, Michael returns the sheets to the folder and pulls out a thin stack of cardboard squares. He lays five squares in a row on the table before me.

"Next stage. If you will, take a few minutes and study these pictures." Michael points to the index cards.

I look down at the table. Each of the squares is a black and white sketch. The first two have similar drawings. They're both trees, only one is taller and has thicker leaves. The third square looks like an old covered wagon, the kind from out West. The next one has a cornucopia full of fruit. The last one has a tiny landscape of a mountain range with a ravine running through it. All very archaic.

I briefly describe each of the picture cards, and then Michael announces it's time for the third and final stage of testing. He walks to the side of the room and opens a tiny cabinet in the wall. I hadn't even noticed it before, but now I hear it humming. A refrigerator! He pulls out a sleek silver tray with three thin vials standing upright. He places it in front of me.

"This test is the shortest and the simplest. All you need to do is inhale and count to five. Just be careful you don't touch any of the liquids," Michael says.

"I can do that."

"One at a time I am going to remove the stoppers. Often smells are the strongest memory triggers, all you have to do is relax. You will have five seconds with each vial."

I watch him rearrange the three test tubes into a specific order. Each vial is filled with a different color liquid of various consistencies.

One is vibrant pink, almost glowing neon under the room's drab lights. The second vial contains silvery syrup that seems to be swirling inside the glass. The last one, the one Michael holds in his hand, conceals a deep blue with dots of purple and specks of garish green.

He looks up. "Are you ready?"

I tilt my head forward in response. A low click reverberates in the empty air as Michael unstops the first test tube. Instantly, a sweet and savory smell escapes into the air, igniting my senses. I lift the first tube to my nose and inhale.

/  /  /

Finally. No more hospital gown.

The canvas concealing the Refinery sways sideways.

Dr. Bishop, Tin Smyth, and another older man I have not met enter the room. Dr. Bishop hands her clipboard to Tria, and then starts toward me. I pull myself up in my bed and swing my legs over the right side.

"Today, at Eleven o'clock, in the Refinery, we discharge unidentified number thirteen-hundred-ninety-nine." Her voice is harsh and stern, very formal. The two men beside her are silent and still.           

"Addressed by the C. R. I. S. and as designated by the Regal Registry, No. 1399 is to appear in Town Square for temporary reassignment," she exhales.

"Garner Brynne and I will accompany you from this point on." Tin Smyth smiles at me. He reaches out his arm for support as I sit up in bed.

"Hello," Brynne whispers from behind Smyth. Instantly, I recognize his low stern voice from the forest. He was there when I resurfaced –the leader.

"Hi." I clutch my nightstand as I step out of bed.

After a flight of stairs, we walk down the same narrow hall outside the Registry, the one that connects to the hospital. I follow Tin Smyth past the lady at the front reception desk. Brynne follows closely behind me.

We step into the scorching sun and I am struck by the vision before me. There are wagons and carts crossing in front of us on paved pathways; I hear a gushing sound and see the giant sculpture is churning water once again.

"This way." Tin Smyth ushers me.

The stores and shops are lined on either side of the cobblestone square; there are sleek metal rails carved into the ground, like trolley tracks.

I see no cars or traffic signs, and no bikes or sidewalks. Every building is an architectural gem, complemented by its neighbor. Some are minute and wooden, with small glass windows and mossy steps. Others are large and stony, made from massive rocks being swallowed by ivy and vines.

Tin Smyth stops in front of the waterwheel. It's the first time I'm close enough to admire the detail. The entire thing is made from a dark steel metal. The structure itself is 20 feet high. I peer into the bottom of the basin; it's filled with clear blue water and outlined in glowing lights. It's a strange centerpiece I think. Last I knew waterwheels were something of the past.

A tall slender lamppost occupies every corner. Some are burnished metal, glazed and lustrous, polished to perfection; others are rickety and wooden, but still majestic, nostalgic maybe, of a time lost long ago. I spot a few people staring at me from the yard of a large brick building with a familiar sign: Briar Wood.

"That's our school, the beloved Briar Wood. Tons of people flock here, all hopeful of attending Wood –that's the sort of unofficial name for it." Tin Smyth nods in the direction of the building, his hands busy sifting through yet another pamphlet.

"Your reassignment team should be meeting us any moment. You can discuss whatever concerns you may have with them. If you find there's a problem with your new home, please do not hesitate to contact me. Although, I think you will find you'll rather enjoy it."

"Okay," I say, digesting how strange it is I am expected to go and live with people I do not know.

"Now, do you have any last questions for me, Miss?" Smyth asks, stowing the papers back into his suit.

"No." I shake my head. Not yet anyway. My temporary reassignment team is supposed to help me assimilate.

"Tin Smyth! How excellent to see you." A short stocky man, wheezing with excitement, rolls up and stops his cart next to us.

"Teho, how pleasant to see you, too. Afraid I don't really have time to chat now; I'm waiting for a reassignment team." Tin Smyth flicks his eyes in my direction.

"Oh! Excellent! How excellent! No worries," Teho exclaims in a merry voice, before continuing out of sight.

"Teho is a town civil. You'll see them running around from time to time. Overly friendly and dreadfully chatty I'm afraid." Smyth rolls his eyes.

I laugh, strained.

The two of us wait for another 10 minutes before a young couple approaches us.

I notice immediately how familiar the man looks, though I'm almost certain I've never met him. His eyes are deep blue, and his hair is a mess of loose curls. Tall and strapping, with broad shoulders and a strong stance, he can't be a day older than 25.

The woman, too, has silky tan skin –smooth like velvet. A tiny white ribbon holds back her long locks and her plump lips turn up when she sees us.

"Burke! How are you?" The handsome man proclaims, throwing his arms up in excitement.

"I hope we didn't keep you two waiting long." He shakes Smyth's hand then, beaming, turns to face me. I extend my hand ready for his grip, but instead he swoops down and scoops me into his arms.

"I see my brother was right about you. You're a real beauty, aren't yah?" He places my feet back on the cobblestones and steps back for a look.

"Your brother?" I mutter.

"William, your Garner. Can't you tell?" He steps back, waving his hands over his body. "Apparently we look alike. Can tell we are brothers from a mile away," he smirks. More like twins, I think.

"I'm Charlotte." The woman embraces me.

Her hair has the same lavender scent from the hospital. "And this is my husband, Nicolas."

"Nic," he corrects.

"Yes, yes you will all have time for that later," Tin Smyth interjects. "I need your signatures here and here, then we can get you all on your way home. I'm sure this lovely lady would like to see her new house."

My new 'parents' sign their names in the pamphlet and return it to Smyth. He glances over the page before ripping out a handful of sheets. He hands them to me.

"This is for you to read," he says. "Make sure you're familiar with it before I collect you for the Evaluation," he tells me.

"Okay," I smile.

He says his goodbyes to Nicolas and Charlotte. They have a last word with Tin Smyth before turning on me.

"Are you all set to go back to the house, then? Do you," she pauses, eyes glancing toward my empty hands, "have everything you need?"

"Yes, I–I'm ready," I stutter.

The three of us set out on a small walk out of town. We wind along a pebbled path that leads to a slightly less populated, less traveled lane. We come to a clearing on top the incline surrounded by pines.

"We're here." Charlotte steps aside.

 The landing is slightly elevated with a perfect view of the brimming town square below.

"Welcome home."