But she was better now. She had passed all the tests, and it had been nearly a year since a flashback had taken hold of her. The control she had lost ages ago slowly returned to her over the months, and she knew if she waited any longer, she would regret it.

So Emma bit back the uncertainty and nodded at Alicia again. "I think it's gonna take a lot more than flowers and chocolate."


"Corporal Emma Swan reported missing eleven months ago. Found near Karim by Troop B14 last night. Lacerations on face, back, and torso. Signs of trauma to the head."

The gurney jostled as a blurry mesh of figures in whites and blues spoke over Emma. Their words faded in and out of her ears, and the light above her burned uncomfortably. Someone was touching her. They were all touching her.

"Doctor—"

Emma screamed as the pain in her hand and forearm felt like someone through her into a vat of acid.

"We're going to have to remove it quickly before the infection spreads. Clear an OR!"

For a moment, the voices yelling over her quieted as if a greater force had muted them. Nothing substantial focused her attention, but the serenity that it'd be over soon washed over Emma like the tide on a day at the beach. It'd stop hurting. Soon. Soon, it'd stop.

A country song played on the radio about a man missing his baby. Emma wasn't familiar with the tune, but every station boasted some mainstream pop that just went over her head. Sixteen months ago, she found that the storage locker where she kept the bug was empty, forcing her to get a rental for the trip to Storybrooke that never came. Back in another rental — a hybrid that admittedly ran more smoothly than her bug — Emma was cruising along the interstate.

Not once did she stop thinking about the postcard left for her, tucked safely away in a bag with even less personal belongings than she ever had. She knew what lay in Storybrooke, just a short drive away. Regina. Henry. A life she could have had with a real family that wanted her. She could still have that. Hopefully. But one look down at the hand she wasn't used to and the trauma she carried on her chest as big as the scar on her face, she knew she couldn't have that anymore. Not just yet. So she had checked herself into Brookhaven, living under their watchful care like the ghost the rest of the world thought her to be.

Every single day she wondered if she made the right choice, distancing herself. Then she remembered breaking a doctor's nose back in Landstuhl because he happened to be inspecting her when her Commander asked her to recount the time when she was forced to fight Nabil for a chance at freedom and the memory was too strong to pull away from.

She knew she was right to keep away.

Three months ago she had contacted that doctor and apologized. Another incident hadn't happened since, and Emma learned to keep it that way.

The song ended just as she veered off the ramp and into a plaza, heading for a drive-thru line up. She'd be needing sustenance for the long drive ahead. Or maybe she was just stalling. Because when the hell did a McDonald's become a McCafe, and what else had happened the world, let alone Storybrooke, since she had been away?


Emma avoided the doctor's eyes as blood spilled from his nose, staining his white coat and the front of his dress shirt as nurses tended to his broken nose. She curled into her bed, clawing at the roots of her hair, her stump laying limply across her knees as she tried to physically rip away the screams terrorizing her head.  One minute death was beating at her door, sneaking its way into her brain as heat and fatigue took hold of her as she lay abandoned on the dessert ground. The next she was waking up in a hospital, tubes strapped in and around her body and her hand missing altogether. The shock nearly made her slip into another coma.

Her mind was spinning like a Tilt-A-Whirl at a carnival as images and noises collided into her brain. Blood. Hers—Arrorró mi niño—Her hand, it hurt so goddamn much. Nabil. Oh god and Nabil—Arrorró mi amor—A child's voice. You stay. You stay. You—Smack. Take us to him! Like hell I'm telling—Smack—Arrorró pedazo de mi corazón.

"Any luck on Booth yet?"

"Last known residence vacated."

"Swan. Soldier, look at me."

She flinched hard and pushed away, curling further into the head of her bed as she ripped at her skull, gasping and sobbing and hyperventilating as her nails dug into her flesh. "Emma Swan: 442 68 9567. Emma Swan: 442 68 9567."

"Get psych up here."

The Welcome to Storybrooke sign greeted her like an old friend. The first time Emma had passed it was five years ago when August all but kicked her out of his apartment. The nerves she felt then at the chance of meeting her mystery correspondent was nothing compared to the tension coiling in her stomach now. It wasn't just some phantom name she was looking for. It was Regina. Regina and Henry. That ridiculously grand house on Mifflin. Her friends. If they were still there.

Who was she kidding? That time of her life was over. Emma did what she always did best and kept herself away, ran away from the one good thing in her life, and for what?

No.

It's not your fault, she reminded herself as her hand gripped the steering wheel tightly. You've come so far. Don't doubt yourself now. Just try.

Her grip slackened as she edged away from the borders of the town and entered civilization. For a moment, it was as if she was coming home. The streets looked the same. The shops were still standing. That clock tower was still stuck at 8:15. Relief flooded through her as she came to a stop at a four-way. It was all still here. Nothing changed. The sleepy town that was her paradise was waiting for her.

Emma slowly inched her way forward, her heart beating rapidly in her ears as she turned down the street and headed down Main. Already the morning rush was heading down the road and turning onto Granny's patio for a nice hot brew and a stack of flapjacks. Joggers waved to each other as they passed. Early morning children were on their bikes, eager to get in as many hours of daylight as they could. The drumming in Emma's chest grew, urging her faster, further, like a signal in battle, though who Emma was facing she had no clue. All she knew was that as she turned right on Brighton, the pounding quieted to a static da-dum da-dum.


"How is it today, Emma?"

"It's good," Emma nodded, flexing and releasing the fingers of her prosthetic as the joints moved on her command. "It's a better fit, and I have more control over it."

Dr. Mitchell, a grey-haired man with a toothy smile, grinned at the blonde and made a note in his book. "You've mastered it quite quickly."

"Thanks," the blonde grinned running her prosthetic through her hair bashfully. "I'm still getting used to suddenly being left-handed."

He held up a writing assignment from her folder, the shaky near illegible writing supporting her claim. "With your learning curve, I imagine you'll pick that up on top of learning to hold a pen in your right hand."

"You think so?"

"As long as you do." He closed her folder and leaned forward in his chair. "Yesterday we stopped after Nabil's death."

"They shot him. I did everything I could," she said solemnly.

"Yes. You did nothing wrong, and neither did he. Do you think you can continue from there?"

She nodded again. "I might not remember all of it."

"That's okay. We'll see how coherent it is together and whenever you want to stop we can," the doctor reassured.

Emma took a breath, her prosthetic fingers flexing on command as she remembered defending every blow Nabil landed on her and watching as he was gunned down after the only hit she forced herself to make on him. "I was alone in the cell for the longest time after he died. It must have been weeks, but most days I was too tired to count. Sometimes I wanted them to kill me, but they wanted to use me as leverage. Like trading at a supermarket or something. Sometimes I wondered if they just kept me around for sport. Then there was yelling and—" she squinted trying to navigate through her memory.

"Take your time," Mitchell encouraged. "We can stop whenever you like."

"I had been coming in and out for days. Long enough to maybe have some bread and some water before I'd black out again. But there was yelling. The door creaked open really quickly and someone shouldered me like a sack of potatoes and I was being moved and stuffed in a truck. The last thing I remember was being kicked out and laying in the hot sun. They must have been leaving me out for dead."

She scrunched up her face as a sudden thought hit her. Dr. Mitchell pressed. "You were badly beaten and malnourished and delusional. Do you remember how you got to that village near Karim?"

She shook her head slowly, eyes squinting so hard as if she could telepathically clear the foggy image in her brain. "I was so sure I was gonna die. Then I heard it. This song. It soothes me."

Dr. Mitchell's eyebrows rose in intrigue. "What song?"

"A lullaby," Emma supplied in realization. "My—she—my girlfriend."

"Regina?" Mitchell guessed after the numerous sessions he had presided with the soldier, the brunette was bound to come up again.

Emma nodded. "She used to sing it all the time. If it wasn't her voice it was Henry's telling me to come home, and if it wasn't them that song would just keep playing. I heard it then, in the desert, waiting to die. I thought I saw them, and those stories where people who are dying go toward the light or they see their loved ones taking them to a better place—I guess I did that. I tuned into their voices and followed blindly."