His hand serves to anchor her there next to the table, wooden edge pressing into her thigh on the other side. Jess searches his face for traces of uncertainty but his eyes seem clear.

"Because I don't remember that," she tells him as she continues to try. She can't place him more solidly than a silhouette of the man right in front of her, and if the world fills in around him, his shadow dissipates and vanishes. Then all that she's cobbled together around it collapses into it, leaving her with nothing. "I don't remember when I got here." Her gaze flickers to the paltry furnishings around the house but none of the walls are scored with the number of days spent here because her life isn't a movie. Back to him, "How long have I been here?"