The next day I walked over to the hostel, sat on a bench across the street, watched the entrance. I saw Marshall working at the front desk. No Helen. Sat watching for an hour. In the hostel lobby, Marshall was filling out some forms. He looked up, smiled at me, walked around the desk, hugged me. I wanted to stay in longer, but he pulled away. He asked, “What can I do for you?” I asked him if I could have a room, he thought I was joking, I was not. I asked him, “Can I have the room that Francis Leifhead stayed in?” He told me, “We haven’t rented it out since the accident.”

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I wished I could say it was something more dramatic than a kiwi, but there it was: a kiwi every day. Shuffled down to lunch, sat by myself. Waited in line, grabbed a tray, the tray heavy in my hands, it got heavier as food piled on. The last thing I got was a kiwi. On this day, the day I spoke with the doctor, where I wondered who I was, wondered if I wanted to get better, wondered what getting better meant. I sat down before my tray of food, I was not hungry, as usual.

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I walked around my new apartment, looked in every corner. In one corner there was a spider, I said, “HELLO!” to my new roommate. The spider was silent and I was okay with that.

My head filled up with new things: I was here, I made it, now it was time to know what I was doing here – why was I here? I know why, but WHY? All the questions made me pace back and forth. Out the window was a small balcony, metal stairs led to ground level. I made note of this in case I needed to escape. The pacing made me hungry, I went out for a walk around my new home in New Zealand to get my bearings, maybe put things right.

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