The sickness hit my mother when I was born. A whole month of sickness. She couldn't remember anything. Amnesia and grand mal seizures and the cold, cold walls in her German hospital room.

This is what my father told me:

Your mother was sick, and the doctors, well, the doctors said she might not make it. I remember one night I was walking the hallways with you in my arms. I was holding you and talking to you. "It might just be you and me, son." My cheeks were wet with tears. "You might not ever get to meet your mother. She might not make it, little one."

Clark.

It is my father's name, and it is the name in the middle of me. Jonathan Clark Stephens. I have wondered if it would even be possible to separate him from me. From my personality. From my mind. From my memories. My life.

But my mother, she was almost taken. She is not a part of my name, and if she had been taken, I would not have anything left. Nothing but DNA and molecules, which are not so easy to hug and are the worst of storytellers.