He had gambled that I would either die on the table or wake without my memory, and either way forget what he had done.

He had bet against me one final time.

And I had won.

I did not feel, waking in that recovery room, the triumph you might expect — it was too early for triumph, and I was too tired, and there was a drain in my head and a bandage at my hairline and a long recovery ahead of me.

What I felt instead, underneath the exhaustion, was something quieter and more durable, which I can only call ownership.

For the first time in fifteen years, my life was going to be mine to decide.