Her thoughts careen together, slamming into one another like a mass car wreck -- one after another after another until suddenly her head is loud, too loud, and she's drowning in the screams of tires and the shattering of glass.

Wrong.

This place is wrong.

It looks like his home, but it isn't. She shouldn't be here. He should be home. He should be safe. They aren't safe.

He's crying.

He's afraid.

She fights for clarity. Wrestles to keep the sight of his face in her focus. Although her mind is hers, it feels as though she is grappling with a stranger -- as though she is still drowning at the bottom of the ocean, battling for the memory of her own name. So much easier to give up. So much easier to give in.

But she owes him. Owes him a way through her own fear.

She forces herself up. Pushes, wobbling, to her feet. Stands. Her vision swims. Twists. She wills herself towards him, one foot in front of the next, until she is in front of him, just a couple of steps away. Again she sinks to her knees.

"I'm Lapis." The words are slow too; she wrestles out each syllable. "Lapis Lazuli. You don't . . . I won't. Ever hurt you."

Even softer, more wistful: "You set me free."