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Jenny visibly stiffened. Ichabod rose and approached his fellow Witness, feeling a dread deep in his bones. He suddenly felt centuries old: beaten and heavy and hopeless. “Lieutenant, do you remember what you taught me, what we used to recognize each other in that place?” He gently pushed out a fist towards her, hoping against hope that he was wrong, that this wasn’t what he thought it was, that Abbie would smile at the memory of that time, that time before all of this.
Abbie just stared at the fist, looked back to Jenny, and then looked up at Ichabod. Her voice—composed, yet still tinged with hoarseness—seemed to float to his ears from far away.
“Who are you?”
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Abbie amnesia