[photo by Cara Shelton from Unsplash]

 Topher

The Outer Banks Hospital is easily a quarter the size of Duke's. This wasn't at all what I had in mind when I moved to The States. I like big cities. Loved everything about living in London—apart from sharing King's College with my father.

After residency, I applied widely in New York. And with some reluctance, allowed my flatmate to drag me to an interview in his hometown. It wasn't my first trip across the Pamlico Sound—I'd been treated like family by his mum and dad on multiple occasions. Maybe that's how this barrier island changed my mind: visit by visit, it seeped into my very soul.

I punch the code into the employee entrance keypad. The mechanism clicks excessively loud and the florescent light irritates my eyes, but the hallway is blessedly empty. I massage my forearm as I walk and a bit of sand falls to the linoleum, reminding me I'm still dressed in swim trousers and flip-flops. Thank Christ it's a slow night. Small hospitals are like small towns—and I'm in no mood for questions.

Radiology is generally vacant at this hour but I approach cautiously nonetheless. The room is dimly lit and there's no tech in sight. Nor is Will in his cramped, cluttered office. But there's a lingering scent of pizza. And I find I'm hungry. "That's a good sign."

I sit at the desk and type a text: in your office. Then tap the keyboard to wake up Will's computer. The cursor blinks and blinks next to the login prompt. My inability to remember my own password is not a good sign.

"Why are you in my office on your day off?" he asks from the doorway. But he doesn't give me a chance to answer. "You look like shit, man. What the hell happened?"

"I went surfing, fell and...well. There's a gap between that bit and the bit where I woke up on the beach."

"A gap?" Will's eyes go ridiculously wide. "Might that be the bit where your dumb ass was unconscious?"

"It might, yes."

He takes a pensive moment to scratch his jaw, clearly trying to make sense of the scenario. "What are you leaving out—and who was with you? I know you're not stupid enough to surf the shoals alone."

This brings to mind Galene, scolding me for my proximity to the jetty. Better not to mention that detail. "I am, in fact, a complete idiot," I admit, trying to suppress a smile.

"What the hell, Toph? And seriously, what are you leaving out? Because falling unconscious into the water and waking up alive is not a thing that happens in real life."

Fair point. "I haven't actually sussed that out," I say. Which is not a lie. "But I do remember there being...people."

Will leans forward, waiting for more. I lift my arm. "I came for a reason, mate. My arm hit something. The surfboard, or perhaps a steel wall. Oh—and speaking of surfboards, I owe you a new one."

"You are a dumbass." Will points to the x-ray machine. "No, you're...what's the British thing you're always calling me?"

I do not fill in the blank. I drag a stool to the table and sit quietly whilst my arm is meticulously positioned and the x-ray lens moved into place. Then Will steps back, hands on his hips, looking a frightening amount like William Senior. Until he says, "You're lucky you're not in the morgue, you tremendous twat. And I can't believe I'm saying that to you of all people."

Luck is not generally a concept I ascribe to, but in this case I agree with a nod.

Will exaggerates an exasperated sigh and walks behind the glass partition to make the exposure. After a few moments, he waves me over. "There's nothing new," he says. "What's the story on the old one?"

"Old one?"

I lean closer to the computer. Will points, indicating thin milky lines intersecting my bones. "Radius. Ulna. Clean breaks. Healed nicely. How old were you?"

"I don't..." I shift my gaze to the limb in question—as if I might somehow confirm scarring on bone through skin and muscle. "I don't remember?"

"You don't remember breaking your arm?" Will asks, smirking.

I've never broken a bone in my entire body. "But I suppose if I'd been very young..." No. If that were the case, I'd have heard the story. Repeatedly.

"Did you hit your head?" Will asks.

"Yes, actually. I'm...almost certain?" I straighten my spine and then feel an urgent need to sit.

I perch on the closest stool and Will produces a penlight. "Do you have a headache?" he asks, flashing it once in each eye.

"I did. A slight one for a bit, but it's gone now."

"Blurred vision, dizziness?"

"No."

"Tender spots?"

Sand falls on my shoulders as he probes my skull. "I don't feel anything, no."

"I don't see anything." The last word is accompanied by the chirp of a text message. He pulls the phone out of his coat pocket and curses. "You're fine," he says, rushing toward the door. "Go home. Sleep."

I stand and study the x-ray once more. "Nothing about this is fine." I email myself a copy before closing the image. I have that awful twinge of anxiety in my chest—the one my mum likes to call intuition. Either way, the message is the same. I'm missing something.

I open a browser and type the word, Galene, into the search box. "No wonder her name sounded familiar." I select the first match, smiling as I read the information: GALENE (Galênê), one of fifty NERIED NYMPHS, daughters of the sea god Nereus. These beautiful goddesses were said to be friendly to fisherman and sailors in distress. Galene is known as the goddess of calm seas.

It's ridiculous how happy it makes me to think of someone giving this name to a child and having her grow up to be so... "Shit." Why did I not ask for a surname, a bloody phone number?

Because I am—undeniably—a tremendous twat.

I type in, famous painting of Venus, thinking of the one that depicts her standing in a sea shell. "La nascita di Venere." A goddess born of the sea. I stare at the famous deity, whose long wavy hair falls on flawless pale skin while I open and close my left hand. The arm I've no recollection of breaking still aches.

Pain, but no cut. Not a single bruise. "And no way to find the goddess who might have all the answers."

I erase the search from the computer's history and head home.