“No.” You push her hand out of the way. A large man in a suit steps forward from his position behind the door. You turn to him.
“I can’t remember who I am. I mean—” You don’t think you’ve done anything wrong, but they won’t help you. The frustration is giving you a headache, a killer throb behind your eyes. “I know my name, I think, but I don’t know why I’m here—”
“If you don’t have an account—” the large man begins, “I don’t know why you’re here either.”
He starts walking toward you, and a lance of heat in your head forces you to clutch at your temples. The man stops short.
“My head—” there’s an inexplicable smell of roses, and for a second you wonder if you’re having a stroke. You look up and see the man has stopped and is shaking. He looks horrified. The woman has fallen to her knees and is clawing at her arms, leaving red and bloody tracks under the sleeves of her white blouse.
Somehow you know: You’re hurting them.
What do you do?