"You think your family can buy everything?"
I opened my eyes to a fluorescent ceiling and the taste of disinfectant.
"You're awake," Esther said before I could place the voice. She was at the foot of the bed with a clipboard, hair pinned back, the same manager energy she'd always had.
"Where am I?" I asked. My voice sounded wrong—higher, practiced. I fought the reflex to check my fingers; they were slim and manicured.
"Summit Hospital. You passed out in the makeup trailer," Esther said. "They ran tests. Everything's fine. You're Fiona Walker, remember? Minor actress, bad luck with placements, big face on tabloid blogs."
I let her talk. I needed the names, the dates, the schedule. Names are anchors.
"Who am I?" I said when she stopped.
"You are Fiona Walker. Twenty. Two films this year, one commercial, and a drama shoot today at Azure Film's Pine Ridge set. Georgina Simon's in charge of moods on set, so tread carefully." She clipped the clipboard shut. "You scared us. You were found in your trailer, unconscious. Dominic came—"
"I remember," I said. Not the hospital flicker, not the trailer bad air. I remembered a life that wasn't mine—faces, a memory of a life built around cultivation manuals, rituals, a past I couldn't live anymore.
Three sentences. Then back to action.
"You're not making a scene," Esther said. "You need rest. But the set waits. Thomas called. He wants you
