[HdihufWasTakenIsBack]

I own a Mac.
I have iBooks on it.
I also have Apple Intelligence on it.
And now I'm going to rewrite Restart using it.

Anyways, let's begin.

CHAPTER ONE: CHASE AMBROSE

I recall a moment of falling, or at least I believe I do. Alternatively, it may be a consequence of my awareness of the fall.

The grass appears distant until it ceases to be so. A scream pierces the silence.

Suddenly, I recognize the scream as my own. I brace myself for the impact, but it never materializes. Instead, an abrupt halt occurs. The sun extinguishes, and the world around me vanishes. I feel as though I am being shut down, akin to a malfunctioning machine.

Does this imply my demise?

Absence of consciousness.

The harsh, fluorescent light is excruciatingly painful. Despite my efforts to close my eyes, the sensation persists. It is as if an explosion has occurred.

Surrounding me, voices are incessantly babbling, their excitement palpable.

“He’s awake!”

“Get the doctor!”

“They said he’d never—“

“Oh, Chase!”

“Doctor!”

In an attempt to discern my surroundings, I am met with an overwhelming brightness that impairs my vision. I frantically move, blinking rapidly, experiencing intense pain, particularly in my neck and left shoulder. Blurry images gradually come into focus, revealing individuals standing and seated in chairs. I find myself lying down, covered by a white sheet that exacerbates the brightness. I instinctively raise my hands to shield my face, only to be ensnared in wires and tubing. A clip on my finger is connected to a beeping machine positioned adjacent to my bed. An IV bag hangs from a pole above it.

“Thank goodness!” exclaims the woman beside me, her voice filled with emotion. Her long brown hair and dark-rimmed glasses are now more visible. “When we discovered you lying there—“

Her words falter, and she succumbs to tears. A younger man swiftly places an arm around her.

Suddenly, a white-coated doctor bursts into the room, exclaiming, “Welcome back, Chase!” He retrieves a chart from a clipboard positioned at the foot of my bed. “How are you feeling?”

The question strikes me like a blow, and I am overwhelmed with a sense of disorientation. “Where am I?” I demand, my voice trembling. “Why am I in a hospital? Who are these people?”

The woman with the glasses gasps in shock. “Chase, honey,” she says in a trembling voice, “It’s me. Your mother.”

My mother. Does she not believe I recognize her?

“I’ve never seen you before in my life,” I blurt out, my voice filled with disbelief. “My mother is—my mother is—“

That moment is marked by a profound realization. I reach out to recall an image of my mother, but my mind fails me. The same holds true for my father, home, friends, school, and any other familiar surroundings.

It is an exceptionally challenging experience. While I retain the knowledge of how to remember, attempting to recall it in practice proves to be an overwhelming obstacle. I feel as though I have completely lost my memory, akin to a computer with its hard drive completely erased. 

Upon rebooting the computer, the operating system functions normally, but when attempting to locate a document or file, no such content is found.

Even my own name is missing.

“Am I—Chase?” I inquire.

While my other questions elicited murmurs of astonishment from the medical staff surrounding my hospital bed, this one is met with a resigned silence.

My gaze shifts to the chart in the doctor’s hands. On the back of the clipboard, the name AMBROSE, CHASE is clearly visible.

A profound sense of confusion washes over me. “A mirror!” I exclaim. “Someone please provide me with a mirror!”

The doctor responds in a soothing voice, “Perhaps you are not yet prepared for that.”

However, I am not in the mood for solace at this moment. “A mirror!” I insist.

The nurse who identifies herself as my mother fumbles in her pocketbook and hands me a makeup compact.

I open it, blow away the loose powder, and fix my gaze upon my reflection.

To my astonishment, a stranger’s face stares back at me.

**Amnesia: A Comprehensive Explanation**

According to Dr. Cooperman’s diagnosis, I have acute retrograde amnesia, which entails the complete loss of memory prior to a specific event. In my case, it is the fall from the roof of our house.

“I am aware of what amnesia entails,” I informed him. “Therefore, why do I retain the memory of a random word but not my own name, family, or the reason for my ascent on the roof?”

“I can provide an explanation for that,” responded the younger individual, who turned out to be my older brother, Johnny, a college student home for the summer. “Your room has a dormer window. You simply open it and crawl onto the eaves. You have been doing this as long as I can recall.”

“However, did anyone issue a warning regarding the potential risk of neck injury?”

“Only since you were six,” my mother interjects. “I surmised that if you had survived this long, it was time to cease worrying. You were an exceptional athlete…” Her voice trails off.

“Memory loss can be an unpredictable phenomenon,” the doctor informs us. “Particularly with a traumatic injury of this magnitude. We are only beginning to comprehend which regions of the brain control which life functions. However, it is entirely possible that this injury has no bearing on geography. Some patients experience long-term memory loss, while others experience short-term memory loss. Still others lose the ability to transfer short-term memories to long-term ones. In your case, the damage appears to be entirely confined to your sense of self and your life experiences up until this point.”

“Fortunately for me,” I respond with a bitter tone.

Cooperman raises an eyebrow. “Do not disparage it. You retain more memory than you may realize. You are able to walk, speak, swallow, and use the restroom. How would you feel about having to relearn everything, even the basic act of taking a step forward?”

The aspect of using the restroom is undoubtedly an improvement. They inform me that I was in a coma for four days before regaining consciousness. I am unable to provide specific details regarding the care provided during that period, but I am certain that I had no involvement in it. Perhaps it is preferable that I remain ignorant of the specifics.

The doctor examines several readings on my monitor, making notes on my chart, and then gazes at me intently. “Are you absolutely certain that you have no recollection of anything from your life prior to regaining consciousness?”

Once again, I peer into the void that is said to be the location of my memory. It is akin to reaching into a pocket for an object that should be present but is not. Only that object is not keys or a phone; it is your entire life. This experience is simultaneously bewildering, frustrating, and terrifying.

“Concentrate harder,” I urge myself. You did not simply emerge from that coma. You are undoubtedly present within it.

A faint image begins to take shape, so I intensify my efforts, concentrating with all my might, attempting to grasp it into focus.

“Well, there’s this girl—“ I begin, struggling to maintain the mental image.

“Girl?” Cooperman turns to my mother. “Does Chase have a girlfriend?”

“I don’t believe so,” Mom responds.

“It isn’t as simple as that,” I insist. “This is a young child.”

“Helene?” my mother asks.

The name eludes me. “Who is Helene?”

“Dad’s child,” Johnny supplies. “Our half-sister.”

Dad. Sister. I search for a connection between these words and the memories they should evoke. My mind is a void, unable to access the information it holds.

“Are the two of them close?” Cooperman inquires.

Mom makes a disapproving face. “Doctor, after the accident, my ex-husband came to shout, accuse, and punch the emergency room wall. Have you seen him here since then, while his son lay in a coma? That should provide you with an understanding of the relationship between my sons and their father and his new family.”

“I am unfamiliar with any Helene,” I volunteer. “However, you cannot rely on me because I am not acquainted with anyone. This is merely a young blonde girl wearing a blue dress with white lace. She appears to be dressed formally, possibly for church or a similar occasion. Nevertheless, I cannot explain why I recall her while nothing else comes to mind.”

“Certainly not Helene,” Mom concludes. “She has dark hair like her mother.”

I turn to the doctor, contemplating the possibility of insanity.

“Certainly not,” he responds. In fact, this petite blonde maiden asserts that your memory is not entirely lost. Rather, your capacity to access it has been compromised. I am confident that your lost life will eventually return to you—or at the very least, a portion of it will. This individual may hold the key to unlocking the mystery. I urge you to continue contemplating her identity and the significance of her memory amidst the chaos that has enveloped you.

I genuinely endeavor to do so, but the overwhelming demands of other matters have proven insurmountable. Now that I have miraculously survived, the hospital has become expedient in its efforts to discharge me. Dr. Cooperman conducts a comprehensive examination of every aspect of my body, excluding my left earlobe. Surprisingly, he discovers that my brain may be experiencing a temporary malfunction, while the rest of my physical functions remain intact.

“So, why do I feel aching all over?”

“Muscular strain,” he diagnoses. “The fall likely caused it. Alternatively, you could say that the abrupt halt at the bottom of the fall contributed to the discomfort. Every muscle from my nose to my toes tensed up due to the force of the impact. Compounded by the ninety-six hours of immobility, this resulted in generalized muscle stiffness. It is a normal reaction and will subside.”

My sole physical injuries are a concussion and a dislocated left shoulder. Remarkably, my unconventional diving technique saved my life. My shoulder struck the ground just a fraction of a second before my head, absorbing a significant portion of the impact, thereby preventing a fatal blow.

My mother brings clothing for me to change into. While I should not be overly impressed by their fit, they are, after all, my own clothes. Nevertheless, they are unfamiliar to me. I cannot help but wonder if I have a particular shirt or a pair of well-worn jeans that I cherish.

I also lack recollection of the vehicle used in the fall—a Chevrolet van—and the residence from which I escaped. I seize this opportunity to clarify certain aspects of my identity. I am not the child of affluent parents. Nor do I possess a particular fondness for mowing the lawn. Perhaps that is Johnny’s domain. I can provide an explanation: I have been in a coma.

I observe the window from which I presumably exited, as it is the only one with roof access. For some reason, I had anticipated it to be higher, and I feel a sense of embarrassment. It is as if my manhood has been diminished by such a seemingly insignificant fall that has affected my cognitive abilities.

When my mother opens the door, a chorus of voices exclaims, “Surprise!”

A makeshift banner hangs across the living room: WELCOME HOME, CHAMP!

A portly man, approximately the same age as my mother, approaches me, envelops me in a tight embrace, and rubs his knuckles vigorously against my head. “It is a pleasure to have you return, son!”

My mother is visibly horrified. “Frank, cease this behavior! He sustains a concussion!”

Despite my mother’s request, the man—my father—allows me to leave but remains defiant. “Ambrose men are resilient, Tina. You are referring to an accomplished all-county running back.”

“Former all-county running back, Dad,” Johnny interjects. “You have heard the doctor—Chase is unable to participate in football this season.”

“A foolish doctor,” my father dismisses. “What is his weight? One-forty, drenched in water?” He addresses my mother. “Do not make him timid like you did with Johnny.”

“Thank you for your words,” my brother responds indifferently.

“Why are you here, Frank?” My mother’s patience is rapidly waning. “How many times have I asked you to refrain from using your key? This is not your residence, and it has been inaccessible for an extended period.”

“I bear the responsibility of paying the mortgage on this property,” he retorts. Suddenly, a cloud lifts from his face, and he grins. “Furthermore, we were compelled to be present to welcome home the triumphant hero.”

“Falling from a roof does not confer heroism upon me,” I mutter under my breath. I am unable to pinpoint the specific reason, but there is an unsettling aura surrounding my father. It is not physical, in fact, despite his paunch and receding hairline. His smile is utterly captivating. Simply witnessing him evokes a desire to like him. Perhaps this is the root of the issue—his unwavering confidence in his welcomeability everywhere. As evidenced by my mother, this is not the case, particularly here.

He has brought his new family—a wife named Corinne, who appears to be roughly the same age as Johnny, and Helene, my four-year-old half-sister. My mother was correct in asserting that Helene is not the girl wearing the blue dress. While this is inconsequential, I am disappointed. I had hoped for one aspect of my life to be grounded in reality.

 

Although I am meeting them for the first time, I must remind myself that they are already familiar with me. For some reason, they do not appear to have a favorable impression of me. Corinne maintains a cautious distance, and the young child remains firmly attached to her mother’s skirt. 

My father appears to be preparing for an extended stay, while my mother resists this notion. “He must rest, Frank,” she asserts. “The doctor’s orders.”

“What—he’s chopping wood? He’s resting.”

“Alone,” she insists. “In his room. Where it’s quiet.”

He sighs. “You’re as stubborn as ants at a picnic,” he remarks. He embraces me again, squeezing slightly less this time. “It’s wonderful to have you back, Champ. Regrettably, Nurse Killjoy over there—“ He inclines his head in my mother’s direction.

I defend her somewhat. “She is correct about the doctor’s instructions. He advised me to take it easy due to my concussion.”

“Concussion,” he scoffs. “During my football days, I sustained numerous concussions. A bit of dirt on it and I was good to go.”

Corinne appears at her husband’s elbow. “We are overjoyed that you are well, Chase. Come on, Frank. Let us depart.”

Feeling compelled to fill the ensuing silence, I lean down to my younger sister. “That is a lovely doll you have there. What is its name?”

She recoils, as if I were about to consume her.

Eventually, my father departs, accompanied by Corinne and Helene. Johnny ventures out to meet friends, while my mother instructs me to ascend the stairs and commence the relaxation regimen that nearly precipitated a conflict.

She must guide me to my room, as I have forgotten its details—the wooden staircase with the faded floral runner adorning the center, the narrow hallway with its low ceiling, and the wooden door with the crack down the center panel.

My mother observes my assessment of the damage and momentarily expresses surprise at my own surprise. Subsequently, she attempts to rationalize the situation. “I likely bear some responsibility. I have consistently permitted you and your friends to engage in sports within the confines of our home. Your physical stature has surpassed the limitations of the space, or perhaps the house itself is insufficient for accommodating such activities.”

“Which sports?” I inquire.

Tears well up in her eyes, indicating that this revelation is emotionally taxing for her.

“Football, soccer, and badminton. You name it.”

Being in my room feels like an extraordinary experience. It is undoubtedly my room, devoid of any doubt. The walls are adorned with newspaper clippings commemorating my participation in football teams I led and lacrosse games in which I emerged victorious. These clippings feature images of myself diving into end zones and being engulfed by ecstatic teammates—all unfamiliar faces. Additionally, there are trophies displayed on shelves, each bearing a testament to my achievements: Chase Ambrose, Top Scorer; Chase Ambrose, MVP; Most Yards From Scrimmage; Team Captain; State Champions. These accolades affirm my accomplishments, yet I am left with a profound sense of emptiness.

I muster the courage to approach the window. My initial assessment was inaccurate; it stands at an adequate height. I am fortunate to still be alive.

It is as if I have been abruptly thrust into the midst of another individual’s life—someone who bears a striking resemblance to me, yet lacks any personal connection.

The physician’s advice holds true: I require rest.

I assume a position on the edge of the bed—my bed. A phone rests on the nightstand, its screen cracked. I ponder whether I possessed it during my fall.

I press the home button, only to discover that it is devoid of power.

A charging cable lies adjacent to the phone, and I connect it. After a few moments, the display flickers to life, revealing my presence once more, accompanied by two other children—complete strangers, despite the evident camaraderie depicted in their poses.

This is a selfie taken with the child on my right acting as the photographer. I am positioned in the center, and the smallest of the three of us, which is surprising considering my size, is evident. The background suggests that it is Halloween, as there are small children dressed in costumes. Holding a baseball bat high above my head, I gaze upon a mangled and ruined jack-o’-lantern hanging from its tip.

The screen flickers to black, and I press the button once more. The image of the triumphant pumpkin bashers reappears, captivating my attention. All three of us bear wild, gleeful, and unholy grins as we feast upon cake.

This revelation prompts a profound introspection: what kind of individual am I?

[Gordon Korman]

Very interesting. AI, is it?                                                                                          ---GK---

[Marlo]

I feel like it’s Grammarly or something of the sort.

Whatever it may be, I think I like mine better.                                                       ---GK---