You don’t remember him. You don’t remember anything. The key from your pocket still works, which is the first thing that unsettles you, sliding into the motel door like your hand already knew the motion before your brain caught up. Inside there's a duffel bag with what you somehow know is your clothes in it, a photo tucked in the side pocket of you and some guy with kind eyes and broad shoulders, and you have absolutely no memory of any of it. Not the room. Not the bag. Not him. Not even your own name, not until you find it on a receipt in the trash and have to just take its word for it.