With a furrowed brow, which hurt, by the way, she opened her eyes to see what the hell the pain was all about. Big mistake. She cried out as a million beams of ultraviolet light pierced her eyes like fine needle points.

She heard the rustling of clothes and the heavy thud of a body hitting the solid floor with an “Ooph.”

“Get those lights off!” a distinctly female voice commanded and no sooner than a half-second later, they snapped off.

She was profoundly grateful…though, growing increasingly confused as to exactly what was going on.

Light padding steps approached her in the dimness lit only by the hall light and she heard the light tap of metal on plastic as a hand came to rest on her bedrail.

“Tracy.”

She didn’t respond, instead preferring to blink determinedly after the silver specks that filled her vision.

“Tracy, focus on me.”

She fluttered her eyelids ineffectively a few times more before turning her fuzzy gaze to the blond woman standing at her bedside. Her haze deepened, not mention, her annoyance.

“Who is Tracy and why do you keep calling me her name?”

Doctor Monica Quartermaine stared at her sister-in-law with a combination of alarm and wonder. She snapped quickly out of her shock and reached into her lab coat for her penlight. The next few minutes were filled with thinly veiled threats as she tried with limited success to examine Tracy.

“You are not shining that thing in my eyes. I have a migraine. What kind of doctor are you?”

It didn’t get much better than that before Monica had thrown up her hands and retreated in search of Alan. She hoped he’d be better able to handle his sister, though, she had her doubts.

Following her departure, a crop of heads appeared in Tracy’s doorway, wearing every variation of emotion possible. A handsome, spiky-haired man stepped in first, his face a work of masked concern. He stuffed his hands in his jeans and smiled at her somewhat reassuringly. Of its own volition, an eyebrow rose in response.

Another man--more boy than adult-- crossed the threshold in a similar pose, without the skillfully composed expression to hide behind. His dark eyes were clouded with worry and she felt a deep-seeded compulsion to put order to his unruly head of hair.

One last man entered wearing an air of charm and disheveled grace. His naturally sparkling eyes were at dusk as they set on her. He was the first to speak among them.

“Looking good, Sparks..”

He was the first to make her smile since she’d regained consciousness.

She laughed, “Ha!” and regretted it immediately. “Oh…no. No more laughing,” she muttered behind tightly closed eyes. At last, the ripples of tension faded to a tolerable level and she peeked into the realm of the lucid.

Mr. Charm and Grace was immediately contrite for his part in her pain--the warning glance he received from ‘Spike’ didn’t hurt either . He touched her shoulder and she was admittedly comforted by its presence.

“It’s all right. Just won’t be laughing much any time soon.” She gave them all an encouraging look before addressing the all-important question. “Now, who are you and why are you in my room?”

Dillon’s jaw dropped and he managed to convey both outrage and terror in one haunting expression.

“You’re joking, right?”

His mother looked on with neither sign nor signal of amusement.

“Why would I joke about not knowing you? If I did, you’d know because we would have met before, which we clearly haven’t.”

Luke, or ‘Spike’ as she’d taken to calling him in her head, held his hands up to halt any protests from the Young Spielberg.

“Everybody hold on here. Look, Tracy, Dillon’s been sitting up here with you for the better part of the last two weeks, as have a few more of us, and I think it’s safe to say we’re all a bit too exhausted for your games. So, let’s just cut the nonsense out right now.”

“I would happily end it…”

He bowed cordially in thanks. Peace had been restored.

“Thank you.”

“If it were nonsense.”

Her dearly beloved dropped to a nearby chair and covered his face with his hands, groaning at his great fortune to have married this woman.

“Mom, we thought you were gonna die.” He looked offended, indignant, hurt.

She flinched unconsciously at the outpouring of emotion.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that. I truly am. However,” she rubbed her IV-free hand across her face, “that does not change the fact that I don’t remember meeting any of you, which I find especially odd since I apparently gave birth to you,” she gestured towards Dillon.

Robert finally felt it was time to intervene. Everyone’s fuses were running a bit too hot for reason.

“Tracy--”

She shut him down with a look.

“Why does everyone keep calling me that?! That is not my name.”

In the length of time it took for her to speak, the air seemed to be swept from the sterile room in a tidal wave that each of them could feel.

“Then, what is your name, mom?”

She straightened up on the bed, fairly radiating frustration at this point, and prepared to make a point. She tucked her dark hair behind her ear.

“My name is…” She paused as the foggy haze returned full force and she gingerly shook her head for clarity. She cleared her throat and made eye contact with the young man she could not believe was her son.

“My name is..." Alarm colored her audible pauses as she foraged through the disarray of her mind for a word, a word she should know better than the color of these bed sheets. “Um…” No word appeared, no defining image. In fact, nothing came to mind, nothing but an boundless landscape of generic nothingness. “Funny, I can’t seem to remember my name.”

Luke and Robert shared equally concerned glances.

"I think I should dig up the Doctors Q for this one, don’t you agree?”

Nothing was said and Robert took that as his cue to go.