You wash your hands with the focus of a surgeon prepping for transplant, then turn around and stand there like a man who just woke up in a kitchen he's never seen before. Your brain has completely reset. You're pretty sure it was important—possibly life-saving—but now you're just a damp-handed idiot staring at a dish rack. Sometimes you retrace your steps like you're solving a murder, hands still dripping. Other times you give up and just... stand there. Wet. Waiting for your memory to come back, the way you wait for a website to load in 2004.