Pines

carried no wallet.
    He should go to the police first thing.
    Unless...
    What if he’d done something wrong? Committed a crime?
    Was that possible?
    Maybe he should wait, see if anything came back to him.
    Though nothing about this town struck him as remotely familiar, he realized, as he stumbled up the street, that he was reading the name on every mailbox. A subconscious thing? Because down in the recesses of memory he knew that one of these mailboxes would have
his
name printed across the side? And that seeing it would bring everything back?
    The buildings of downtown lifted above the pines several blocks ahead, and he could hear, for the first time, the noise of cars in motion, distant voices, the hum of ventilation systems.
    He froze in the middle of the street, involuntarily cocking his head.
    He was staring at a mailbox that belonged to a red-and-green two-story Victorian.
    Staring at the name on the side of it.
    His pulse beginning to accelerate, although he didn’t understand why.
    MACKENZIE
    “Mackenzie.”
    The name meant nothing to him.
    “Mack...”
    But the first syllable did. Or rather, it prompted some emotional response.
    “Mack. Mack.”
    Was he Mack? Was that his first name?
    “My name’s Mack. Hi, I’m Mack, nice to meet you.”
    No.
    The way the word rolled off his tongue, it wasn’t natural. Didn’t feel like anything that belonged to him. If he was honest, he hated the word, because it conjured up...
    Fear.
    How strange. For some reason, the word instilled fear.
    Had someone named Mack hurt him?
    He walked on.
    Three more blocks brought him to the corner of Main and Sixth Street, where he sat down on a shaded bench and took a slow, careful breath. He looked up and down the street, eyes desperate for anything familiar.
    Not a chain store in sight.
    There was a pharmacy catty-corner from where he sat.
    A café next door.
    A three-story building next to the café with a sign overhanging the stoop:
    WAYWARD PINES HOTEL
    The smell of coffee beans pulled him off the bench. He looked up, saw a place called the Steaming Bean halfway up the block that had to be the source.
    Hmm.
    Wasn’t necessarily the most useful piece of knowledge, all things considered, but it dawned on him that he loved good coffee. Craved it. Another tiny piece of the puzzle that constituted his identity.
    He walked to the coffee shop and pulled open the screened door. The shop was small and quaint, and just by the smell of things, he could tell they brewed great product. A bar down the right side faced espresso machines, grinders, blenders, bottles of flavor shots. Three stools were occupied. A few sofas and chairs lined the opposite wall. A bookshelf of faded paperbacks. Two old-timers were at war on a chessboard with mismatched pieces. The walls displayed local artwork—a series of black-and-white self-portraits of some middle-aged woman whose expression never changed from photo to photo. Only the focus of the camera changed.
    He approached the cash register.
    When the twentysomething barista with blonde dreadlocks finally noticed him, he thought he detected a flicker of horror in her pretty eyes.
    Does she know me?
    In a mirror behind the register he caught his reflection and immediately understood what had prompted her look of disgust—the left side of his face was blanketed in a massive bruise, and his left eye bulged, nearly swollen shut.
    My God. Someone beat the shit out of me.
    Aside from his hideous bruise, he wasn’t bad looking. Figured he stood six feet tall, maybe six-one. Short black hair, and a two-day beard coming in like a shadow across the lower half of his face. A solid, muscular build evident in the way his jacket hung on his shoulders and the taut stretch of the oxford across his chest. He thought he looked like some advertising or marketing exec—probably cut a damn striking profile when he was shaved and polished up.
    “What can I get for you?” the barista asked.
    He might’ve killed for a cup of coffee, but he didn’t have a dime to whatever his name was.
    “You brew good coffee here?”
    The woman seemed confused by the question.
    “Um, yeah.”
    “The best in town?”
    “This is the only coffee shop in town, but yeah, our coffee kicks ass.”
    The man leaned over the counter. “Do you know me?” he whispered.
    “Excuse me?”
    “Do you recognize me? Do I ever come in here?”
    “You don’t know if you’ve been in here before?”
    He shook his head.
    She studied him for a