One morning, during a rare moment of clarity, Helen tried again. “Do you remember your name?” He frowned, lips forming around a sound like it hurt. “Cal…” he rasped. “Cal…,” and then it twisted into “caldera,” the word breaking into two pieces as his body sagged, drifting back into sleep.
A nurse laughed softly. “God knows that’s a weird name.” Helen didn’t laugh. The word nagged at her—caldera. That evening, long after rounds, she looked it up. A volcanic crater formed by collapse after an eruption. Collapse. Eruption. Why did every fragment of his language circle danger? Who was this man?