He woke to light.
Not the soft gray of the sky this time, but something harsher. Fluorescent. It buzzed faintly overhead, drilling straight into his skull. He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut, lifting a hand to shield his face.
The smell hit him next.
Coffee. Paper. Old carpet. Something metallic underneath it all.
He opened his eyes again, slower this time.
Bars.
Not jail bars, he realized after a second, but a holding room. A narrow space with a bench bolted to the wall and a thick glass window separating him from the rest of the room. A police station.
His heart jumped.
He sat up too fast and immediately regretted it. The room spun, and he grabbed the edge of the bench, breathing through the wave of dizziness until it passed.
"Okay," he muttered. "Okay. This is new."
He looked down at himself. His clothes were still damp, rain-darkened and wrinkled. His backpack sat on the floor near the door, zipped shut. Nothing else had been taken. That alone felt strange.
He pressed his palms to his face and dragged them down slowly.
"Note to self," he said quietly. "Stop passing out."
His voice echoed just enough to remind him he was alone.
He glanced around again, taking in details this time. A desk visible through the glass. A corkboard with flyers and notices pinned to it. A clock on the wall that read 9:12 a.m.
Morning.
That sent a small jolt of panic through him.
The last thing he remembered was rain and headlights and the forest breathing behind him. He tried to piece together the rest, but there was a gap there. A clean cut in his memory, like someone had simply turned the page.
"I go to sleep in my bed," he whispered, rubbing his temples, "wake up on a road. I walk seventeen miles, almost die again, and now I'm here."
He let out a dry, humorless laugh.
"Fantastic."
His gaze drifted to the glass again. On the other side, someone moved past, a uniformed figure carrying a stack of papers. He tensed instinctively, then forced himself to relax.
Police station. That meant rules. Structure. Answers, maybe.
Forks.
The name settled into him again, heavier now that it had shape. The station looked small. Old. Familiar in a way that made his skin prickle.
"I know this place," he said under his breath, frowning. "I should not know this place."
The door handle clicked.
He straightened, heart kicking up as footsteps approached. Whoever was coming would have questions. A lot of them.
And he had no idea what he was supposed to say.
The door opened with a muted click.
He looked up.
The man who stepped inside was tall in a quiet way, broad-shouldered but unassuming, wearing a brown sheriff's uniform that looked lived in rather than pressed. His hair was dark with streaks of gray, his expression cautious but not unkind. He carried a paper cup of coffee in one hand and a manila folder in the other.
He stopped just inside the doorway.
"Well," he said, voice low and even, "you're awake."
The boy stared at him.
Not because he was afraid. Not because he did not understand the words. He just froze, the way his body seemed to do lately when reality shifted too fast.
The man sighed softly, not impatient, just tired.
"I'm Charlie Swan, Chief of Police here in Forks," he said. "Name's Charlie."
The name landed harder than it should have.
Forks.Police chief.Charlie.
His head throbbed faintly, as if something deep inside him had stirred and then gone quiet again. He swallowed, still staring.
Charlie raised an eyebrow. "You alright, kid?"
Silence.
Charlie glanced down at the folder, then back up at him. "You were found about 5 miles outside town, walking the road like you'd missed the last bus out of reality." He paused, studying him more carefully now. "Care to tell me what a kid like you was doing out there?"
Still nothing.
"And where you were headed," Charlie added, gentler this time. "That part's usually helpful."
The boy's mouth opened slightly, then closed again. Words hovered just out of reach, tangled with exhaustion and disbelief. He knew what the answer was.
Forks.
But saying it felt dangerous, like stepping on something that might crack.
From somewhere behind the glass, a voice cut in.
"What'd you do to him, Chief?" the officer called out, amused. "You scare him that bad he froze up? Hahaha."
Charlie did not turn around.
"Very funny, Mark," he replied flatly.
The boy blinked.
The sound broke through the fog in his head, just enough. He dragged in a breath and finally spoke, his voice hoarse and uncertain.
"I… I'm fine," he said, then winced. "I think. Just tired."
"That I believe," Charlie said, nodding. He set the coffee cup down on the counter outside the room and leaned one shoulder against the wall, trying to look less intimidating. "You got a name?"
The question hit harder than expected.
His name.
For a terrifying second, his mind went blank.
"I," he started, then stopped. His pulse quickened. "I know it. I just… need a second."
Charlie watched him carefully now, the joking gone from his face. "Take your time," he said. "You're not in trouble."
The boy let out a shaky breath and rubbed his hands together.
"Okay," he muttered to himself, barely audible. "Okay. New rule. No more blacking out. No more waking up in random places."
Charlie frowned. "Say that again?"
He looked up, embarrassed. "Sorry. Just… talking to myself."
Charlie gave a short nod. "Happens more than you'd think."
The boy hesitated, then looked back at the chief. "You said I was walking the road."
"Yeah," Charlie said. "In the rain. Middle of nowhere. No car. No phone. You were heading toward town."
The boy's stomach twisted.
"So I was going the right way," he murmured.
Charlie tilted his head. "Right way to where?"
He met the chief's eyes this time.
"To here," he said quietly.
The silence stretched.
Charlie waited, patient but watchful, giving him space to find the words. The boy swallowed, his throat dry, then nodded once as if making a decision.
"My name is… Mame," he said.
Charlie blinked.
"Mame," he repeated slowly.
"Yes," Mame said, a little too quickly. "That's my name."
Charlie frowned, clearly trying to process it. "Mame?" he echoed again, disbelief creeping in. "As in… Mame?"
Mame shifted on the bench, heat creeping up his neck. "Yeah. I know. It's not exactly common."
Charlie looked down at the folder, flipped a page that was still mostly empty, then looked back up. "That a nickname, or…?"
"No," Mame said. "It's my actual name."
Charlie stared at him for a long second.
"Mame," he said again.
Mame sighed. "Okay, so. My parents were fans of Dragon Ball Z."
Charlie's brow furrowed further.
"You know," Mame continued, words spilling out now that he had started, "the anime. Most of the character names are based on vegetables. It's kind of a theme. Mame means bean in Japanese, so they thought it fit."
He paused, then added, quieter, "They wanted something unique."
Charlie just looked at him.
The room felt very small all of a sudden.
Mame cleared his throat. "Sorry," he said quickly. "I'm rambling."
Charlie leaned back slightly, studying him with a mix of confusion and something closer to concern. "No," he said after a moment. "It's fine. I've heard stranger names."
That was not reassuring.
Charlie scribbled something down in the folder. "Alright, Mame. Bean," he added under his breath, not unkindly. "Let's back up a bit."
He met Mame's eyes again. "You still haven't told me where you were going."
Mame hesitated.
The answer rose immediately, clear and heavy.
Here.
Forks.
He swallowed. "I think… I was trying to get to Forks."
Charlie nodded slowly, like that confirmed something he had already suspected. "That's where you were headed when we found you," he said. "Any idea why?"
Mame opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
His head throbbed faintly again, that same strange pressure building behind his eyes. He shook his head once, frustrated.
"No," he admitted. "I just know I was supposed to be here."
Charlie watched him closely now, all humor gone. "Kid," he said carefully, "that's not usually how people end up in this town."
Mame gave a weak, tired smile. "Yeah. I'm starting to notice that."
Charlie closed the folder with a soft tap. "Alright," he said. "We're going to take this one step at a time."
Mame nodded, hands clenched loosely in his lap.
One step at a time sounded good.
Because whatever had put him on that road, whatever had watched him from the trees, and whatever had carried him here, it was not done with him yet.
And somehow, deep down, he knew Forks was only the beginning.
Charlie hesitated for a moment, then tapped the folder against his palm.
"Mind if we take a look in your bag?" he asked. "Sometimes there are clues in there that help us figure out where you came from."
Mame looked down at the backpack by his feet.
"Sure," he said after a second. "Be my guest."
Charlie nodded once and stepped out of the holding room. A minute later, he returned with the backpack and set it on the metal table outside the glass. He unzipped it slowly, methodically, like a man who had done this more times than he could count.
Mame watched from the bench, his chest tightening with a strange mix of curiosity and dread. He had not looked through everything himself. Part of him had not wanted to.
Charlie pulled out clothes first. Folded neatly. Practical. New but not flashy.
"Huh," he muttered. "Someone packed this with intention."
He checked the main compartment, then paused and turned the bag around.
"There's a zipper back here," he said.
Mame blinked. "There is?"
Charlie nodded and opened it.
Papers slid out into his hand.
Charlie glanced at the top page, then stilled.
"Well," he said quietly.
Mame leaned forward despite himself. "What is it?"
Charlie did not answer right away. He flipped the paper around and held it up to the glass so Mame could see.
Forks High School was printed clearly across the top.
Transfer documents.
Mame's breath caught.
"That's… mine," he said slowly.
Charlie raised an eyebrow. "You recognize it."
"Yeah," Mame replied. "I mean, I do now."
Charlie studied him for a moment, then returned his attention to the bag. He pulled out another item, this one smaller and heavier.
A bank book.
Charlie opened it, scanned the numbers, then whistled softly under his breath.
"Looks like about fifty thousand dollars," he said. "Marked for school expenses."
Mame stared. "That much?"
"You expecting less?" Charlie asked.
"I was not expecting anything," Mame said honestly.
Charlie hummed at that, then reached back into the zipper pocket and removed a folded letter. It was sealed, the paper thick and official-looking.
Charlie opened it carefully and read.
His expression changed.
The lines around his eyes deepened, and his jaw tightened just slightly.
Mame felt a knot form in his stomach. "What does it say?"
Charlie exhaled through his nose. "According to this," he said, "you're listed as a ward of the state."
Mame's hands curled into fists.
"And your parents," Charlie continued gently, "are deceased."
The words landed without impact at first. No pain. No grief. Just a hollow quiet.
"Oh," Mame said.
Charlie glanced up sharply. "You okay?"
"I think so," Mame replied. He frowned, pressing a hand to his chest. "It feels like I should feel something. I just… do not."
Charlie did not push. He folded the letter and set it aside. "There's more."
Mame nodded.
"The letter mentions a medical note," Charlie said. "Says you have a memory condition. Temporary lapses. Forgetting things sometimes, but that they come back gradually."
Mame swallowed.
"That explains a lot," he murmured.
Charlie closed the bag and rested his hands on the table. "You want to tell me about that?"
Mame stared at the floor for a long moment. "I remember things," he said slowly. "Just not always when I need to. It's like… they are behind a fog. If I stop pushing, they come back on their own."
Charlie studied him carefully. "That include your parents?"
Mame shook his head. "Not yet."
Charlie nodded once, accepting that answer. He picked up the folder again and tucked the papers inside.
"Well," he said, voice steady but thoughtful, "that gives us a starting point."
Mame looked up. "So what happens now?"
Charlie met his eyes through the glass. "Now," he said, "we figure out where you're staying, get you warmed up, and make sure you're taken care of."
Mame let out a slow breath he did not realize he had been holding.
For the first time since waking up on the road, something about this felt real.
Organized.
Anchored.
And yet, as Charlie turned away to make a call, that strange sense of being watched crept back into Mame's thoughts.
Whatever had placed those papers in his bag had planned for him to arrive in Forks.
And that thought was far more unsettling than waking up alone on the road.