You wake in a Walmart parking lot.

Position: fetal. The asphalt still radiates yesterday's Arizona. A Subway wrapper adheres to your left cheek. Sweet onion teriyaki.

The security lights pulse. Irregular. Like something cardiac.

Above: stars flicker in patterns. Binary or Morse or the thing children whisper to stuffed animals after the accident.

Your Samsung lights up. No bars. No time. Just an app you didn't download. White bone against black. The name: "Remember?"

You tap.

The parking lot holds its ...