Revived (Cat Patrick)

has a cartoony map of Nebraska embroidered on it.
    The rest of the walls are white. On the one directly across from the bed is a modern low black dresser; the wall with the door holds a small white desk, with no-frills shelves hanging over it. There are photos as well, but most are of Audrey and her family; the few shots of friends show faces I don’t recognize. I wonder again why Audrey doesn’t have more friends. Then, happy to be here regardless, I move on.
    In the corner near the largest window is a little seating area with a small futon and a striped yellow, red, and black chair. Between the two seats is a see-through coffee table, where a stack of magazines seems to be floating in midair.
    “Is that Lucite?” I ask, pointing to the table before settling in across from Audrey.
    “I guess,” she says.
    “It’s so awesome,” I murmur. “Did you design your room?”
    Audrey nods proudly, smiling.
    “I’m into that, too,” I say.
    “Cool.”
    There’s a pause while I wonder what on earth to talk about next. Have I entirely used up my conversation starters after only a few days?
    Thankfully, Audrey keeps things moving.
    “So, your dad seems interesting,” she says.
    I raise my eyebrows. “Really?”
    “Sure,” she says. “He talks to you like you’re an adult.”
    “Yeah.”
    “And don’t hurl, but he’s hot,” Audrey says.
    “Where’s your bathroom?” I joke, standing halfway up. Audrey laughs and I sit back down.
    “I’m sure everyone tells you that,” she continues. “He looks like George Clooney… only not as old.”
    “I’ve never thought about that, but you’re right. He sort of does.”
    “Totally. But your coloring is so much lighter. You must look like your mom,” Audrey says.
    “Maybe,” I say before I realize what I’m saying. When Audrey gives me a funny look, I proceed with caution. There are things I can share; there are things I can’t.
    “I’m adopted,” I admit, which is mostly true. What I don’t admit is that I was an orphan when I died in a bus crash; that after the government brought me back to life, it wasn’t quite sure what to do with me; that ultimately it gave Mason a lifelong assignment to raise a child… or at least until I turn eighteen. That if we’re getting technical, the adoption isn’t legal because the real me died in Bern, Iowa, eleven years ago.
    “Really?” Audrey asks, clearly intrigued by the whole adoption thing. Her brown eyes are wide and sparkling.
    “Uh-huh,” I say.
    “I don’t know anyone who was adopted,” she says. “Did you always know, or did they pull a Lifetime movie on you and surprise you when your birth mother needed a kidney or something?”
    Laughing, I say, “I always knew. Like you said, my dad treats me like an adult. Same goes for my mom. We don’t really have secrets.” At least not from one another. I scratch my nose before remembering that some agents would call the gesture a “tell.” I return my hand to my lap.
    “Gotcha,” Audrey says, not seeming to notice. “But don’t you wonder about your birth parents?”
    “Not really,” I say honestly.
    “Seriously? I think I’d wonder.”
    “The way I see it is that I don’t want to know people who didn’t want to know me. I don’t mean that to sound bitter, because I know they had their reasons. I mean it like I don’t want to spend energy worrying or thinking about people who aren’t in my life.”
    “I guess that’s a good way to look at it,” Audrey says. “You seem incredibly well-adjusted about the whole thing.”
    “Thanks, I think,” I say, laughing. I tip my head to the side. “I don’t think I’ve ever been called ‘well-adjusted’ before.”
    Audrey chuckles, too, and despite my concern about whether or not I’m sticking to the script, it feels good to have someone ask about my past. I’m so into the conversation that when Audrey asks how old I was when my parents adopted me, I blurt out the truth.
    “Four.”
    “Where did you live before that?” she asks.
    Screeching tires and warning bells sound in my brain; I actually feel my fingers wrap around the armrests. For practical reasons, like if I have to go to the emergency room or something and my blood doesn’t match my parents’, it’s okay to tell people I’m adopted. But the story is that I was adopted at birth. Where I lived before is not part of the dossier.
    “I can’t get over your mom letting you chalkboard your entire wall,” I say,