Dane winced as Culpeper slid a yellow fingernail beneath the blister on Jasmine's shaved head. Her gaze fluttered towards him, and she tried to smile. It was an ugly, twisted thing, full of desperation. Dane looked away, feigning interest in the cellar.

Two blinking fluorescent tubes illuminated Culpeper's lab. Dark corridors yawned between rows of shelves littered with assorted boxes. Broken flagstones jutted from the floor, testament to an earlier building.

Culpeper dug a second fingernail beneath the blister and tugged. With his white coat, spindly limbs, and skin the colour of dried capers, the man reminded Dane of an ibis picking at insects in the mud. His smoky-green eyes and black hair only heightened the effect.

"I have it." Culpeper peeled a piece of skin from Jasmine's scalp that resembled a flattened mushroom.

"Now what?" Dane asked.

"Quickly, before it dries." Culpeper’s bare feet slapped on the flagstones as he hurried over to a pitted workbench. He'd already prepared Jasmine's memory box, having smeared the glossy black cardboard with a mixture made from ashes and a vial of her blood. Over this mottled, grey coating, he'd painted a series of flowing symbols in a sulphurous yellow. The script was a mix of Sanskrit and hieroglyphics.

Culpeper placed the flap of skin inside the box, closed the lid, and painted more symbols across the top. "Sealing the memories in," he said without looking up.

Jasmine's fingers trembled as they entwined with Dane's. He squeezed them, but continued watching.

Culpeper glanced at them. "You, woman! Remember instructions." He slapped Jasmine's hand away. "Focus on what to forget, not on him."

"I'm sorry." Jasmine bowed her head. The fall of auburn hair normally hid her face, but instead, her pink scalp glistened in the fluorescent light. "I ... forgot."

"’Swhat you're here for, girlie." Culpeper sneered and waved Dane towards a chair. "This way, big man, this way.”

Dane's blonde hair fell before the onslaught of electric clippers. When he looked up, fear and shadows had contorted Jasmine's face into a stranger's.

"We'll leave Claudia behind." Dane needed Jasmine to have faith in him—in them. "Here. In this cellar. And then we can be together. Like you always wanted."

Jasmine's expression splintered. "Dane—"

"You concentrate, big man." Culpeper opened a jar of red ink and sucked the tip of his brush into a point. A tiny clawed foot bumped against the inside of the glass. He dipped the brush in the mixture and caressed Dane's scalp with it.

Icy needles prickled Dane’s skin. He felt a moment's panic but a glance at Jasmine quelled it; she deserved someone who could love her completely. Someone strong.

Culpeper traced Dane's temporal lobe with the red ink. Using a tiny spatula, he smeared a brown salve across the memory zone. Ice became fire as it blistered Dane's skin.

"Guilt only stings those with a conscience," Culpeper murmured. Once the salve dried, he dug in his nails and scraped away the blister.

The tearing ripped deep into Dane's mind. He closed his eyes, seeing Claudia as she was before the accident: dark hair to her waist, lean and confident. Claudia—before he'd told her about Jasmine—before she’d totalled her car.

"Dane?" Jasmine. Calling him back.

"Quiet," Culpeper muttered.

"You don't have to do this for me. The nightmares will pass. And I can live with being called Claudia now and then. Let's just go."

Dane opened his eyes. For a moment, all he could see was Claudia, a sardonic smile playing across her face. Then Jasmine's features blurred with the memory of his wife: their arms crossed, eyes pleading.

"We've tried everything else." Dane’s voice was hoarse and uneven, his breathing ragged. "Therapy, hypnosis, drugs. I have to forget. And so do you."

Culpeper tugged, and the desiccated patch of skin tore away. Blood oozed from the wound, but the pain was distant.

"Nearly over." Culpeper placed Dane's skin flap inside the grey box that had once contained the bow-tie Claudia had given him for their valedictory dinner.

Culpeper sealed the memory box with sulphur that hissed as it mixed with the blood and ashes. "Burn them together," he said, pointing at a blackened flagstone.

Dane doused their memory boxes in lighter fluid. Jasmine held his hand as he lit a match. "I love you," she murmured like a prayer. He searched for a suitable response, but his mouth was dry, and his heart heavy with Claudia before the accident.

Flames engulfed the boxes.

They whooshed through Dane's skull, searing the back of his eyes. He cried out.

"Yes, it stings," Culpeper whispered.

Bright tongues of flame fed upon his guilt, dancing over what he'd done to—

Silence.

A dark cellar.

He blinked, eyes adjusting.

A woman with a shaved head stood beside him. A man with dark skin and yellow nails leered at him across a workbench.

None of it made sense.

"You can come out now," leering-man said.

A wheelchair-bound woman rolled into the blinking light. She had short dark hair and burn marks that ran the length of her face and neck. One leg had been amputated at the knee, and her left hand had withered.

"You don't have much time," leering-man warned.

"Dane, darling," she said in a leisurely voice. "You remember me—Claudia, your wife? For better or worse. All that." She stroked the padded arm of her wheelchair, glittering eyes searching his face. "You can stop berating yourself for my accident. After all, we have the rest of our lives for you to make it up to me. Don't we?"

He frowned, familiarity and uncertainty plucking at the void in his mind. Yes, he'd hurt her. That much he remembered. He nodded, wanting to make things right.

Claudia's crooning voice addressed the bald woman. "Jasmine, my dearest bridesmaid, your debt is deeper still. To earn my forgiveness, you'll cook and clean for me, and answer when I call. Just like best friends should."

Jasmine nodded, the motion jerky, almost reluctant.

"My payment?" leering-man prompted.

"Ah yes." Claudia flicked the fringe from her eyes. "Jasmine, you'll remain here for two weeks. Do whatever this man tells you, without question."

He twittered, yellow nails tap-dancing on the bench.

A smile squeezed through Claudia's scars. "Dane, darling. Help me up the stairs."