Erin's red Mercedes is parked out the front of Angela's office, waiting for me. Exiting the building, hands shaking, I inhale, mentally telling my heart to slow and make my way towards her. Opening the passenger side door, I climb in, taking my seat, a cup of steaming coffee waiting for me as I put on my seatbelt.

After my session, it's become quite clear that it's ironic that not wearing a seatbelt during the accident was one of the elements that saved my life.

Even though today we focused on me and what I experienced, I know from the police reports that the car exploded shortly after impact. So, if I were wearing my belt, I would have ended up just like my parents. I still don't know what made me decide not to wear my belt, but I can recall multiple occasions during my teenage years when I didn't bother because I was too cool to play safe.

Lifting my drink from the holder next to me, I take a sip, the warm, aromatic liquid helping to soothe my aching throat as Erin, dressed in one of her many Armani suits, hands me a silver flask. "What's this for?" I ask, swallowing another mouthful and taking it with my other hand.

"Open it," she replies, starting the car.

Twisting the cap, I peer inside and get a waft of whiskey. "Thought you might wanna add some sugar, you know, to take the edge off."

Smiling, I take off the lid of my coffee and pour a generous amount of the alcohol into the cup before resealing them both and tucking the silver bottle in the door side pocket. Taking another large drink, I sit back and groan, my lower muscles in heaven as the heated seats soothe their tension.

"That good?" Erin queries, putting on her Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses and indicating before pulling out and onto the road.

"Well, I know how I got my scars."

"No way," she gasps, turning towards me, causing the car to swerve in the same direction.

"Yes way," I grit, "and if you can concentrate on driving and not killing me, I'll tell you how."

"Yes, ma'am," Erin retorts, in her best upper-class British accent, straightening her spine and holding both hands on the steering wheel, "please, do continue."

Taking another mouthful of the warm and spicy brew, I lean back against the headrest and sigh, "Well, you know how I've been dreaming of-"

"Your Wolf"

"Seriously, Erin, do you want me to tell you or not," I snapped, my nerves frayed, my back throbbing, and my throat stinging. I'm hanging on by a thread. What's going on with me?

"Babe, I'm sorry. Fuck! Ava, hun, are you okay?" Erin asks, laying her manicured hand on my thigh, her voice apologetic, "I promise I won't talk anymore."

I'm agitated, my hormones are a mess, and I'm seconds from cracking. Taking a deep breath, trying and failing to gain control, I feel my eyes start to swell with tears.

"Babe," Erin repeats, her voice laced with concern, "I'm so sorry,"

"No, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have snapped at you," I sniff, "you're just trying to make me feel better, and all I want to do is crawl into a hole and hide for a while."

Composing myself, I close my eyes, "My Wolf, Erin, he was there, at the accident, he, he..." Sniff, "he bit me!"

"Fuck!"

"Yeah, my thoughts exactly. Erin, I thought he was my friend. In my dreams, he made me feel safe, but. He attacked me, Erin. Attacked ME!"

"Babe." Her tone is full of sympathy.

"Yeah!" I sigh, almost defeated.

"Ava, do you remember what happened afterward? Do you have any idea as to why your dreams..."

Sighing again, I open my eyes to see that we're pulling into my street. "No, I pretty much woke up after that. It's pretty messed up, Angela wants to do another session, but we've agreed to let that wait a while until we can work through what we know now."

Erin slows, stops at my house, puts the car into park, and leans over to pull me into a hug. She smells like vanilla and iris, her signature Tiffany scent I gave her on her last birthday. Melting into her embrace, seeking her warmth, I feel better. Erin is another version of home for me, my one constant since my parents.

Reluctantly she lets me go, her hands cupping my face, her ebony eyes soft. "Are you sure you don't want me to stay with you tonight? I can cancel my date; all you have to do is say you need me, and I'm all yours."

"No, I'll be fine," I cut in, "I feel like shit. I need a hot bath and a few painkillers, and I'll be right as rain."

"Your back still hurting?" Erin asks, her brows creasing.

"Yep, might book into seeing my osteo next week, but heat normally helps."

Nodding, Erin offers a weary smile. "Okay, then if you don't want my awesomeness, you can get your ass out of my car. I have primping to do." Then winking, she adds, "I'll swing by tomorrow. We can have a girls' night in."

Laughing, I lean over and give her a quick kiss on the cheek before grabbing the handle and opening my door. Pausing before getting out, I look back at her and offer my own smile. "You know I love you, don't you?"

"Of course," she scoffs, her mouth twisting in mock disgust and resting an elegant hand over her heart, "Who wouldn't love all that is moi?"

"True." Getting out, I blow a kiss, telling her I'll call her tomorrow before heading inside.

I would be lost without her. We're kindred spirits, two lost souls searching for a place to belong.

Unlocking the front door, I place my bag and keys on the living room table and make my way upstairs to change into lounge pants and a singlet, removing my undies in the process. Comfort clothes can make such a difference. Tossing my dirty outfit in the hamper in the small laundry off the kitchen, I move to the fridge and take out the ¾ full bottle of Pinot and a tall glass from one of the cupboards before turning and heading back upstairs to the spare bedroom. Something about my session today triggered a thought, not quite a recollection, but an idea of why we were on the mountain that day.

I can safely say that we were coming down the Spur, not up. I know this from the direction the car was facing in my memory of the crash. I also remember something my parents used to talk about when I was young, another house they used to visit. Not a location I can recall them taking me to, but maybe, if I check their old photo albums, I might stumble across something that will help me piece together more details about what we were doing and where we were coming from.

Entering the room, I leave the bottle and glass on the dresser before moving to the spacious walk-in robe. At the rear of the closet, I dig out a sizable black storage box full of old albums and drag them from the shelf. Turning, I dump the contents onto the spare bed and sort them into two piles. Pile one: Pre-me. Pile two: After me.

It's pretty easy to tell which albums belong in which pile. Each leather-bound cover is labeled with its year/period. Any book that's pre-1991 goes to my right and after 1991 goes back in the box.

Once I've finished sorting, I'm relieved to see that there are only five albums that are pre-1991. The other 30 I put aside for another day.

Pouring myself a glass of the Pinot and taking a large drink, I pick up the oldest one. It's a faded dark leather book with visible age lines, dated in the pre-1900s, and open it. My eyes are immediately greeted with yellowed, black, and white photos, some of the pictures too old and faded over time. Still, most of the images are of long-forgotten relatives, my great, great, great ancestors, grandparents, uncles, aunties, on my mother and father's side. The album is full of women in long white dresses and men in suits. The children are all smiling and clothed in little jackets and lace-trimmed dresses, some sitting on blankets, trees, and hills in the background, and other photos are in front of a massive structure, a significant log manor.

I continue to flip through the pages. The themes are the same, family shots, group shots, the fashions changing with the times. The only other constant in the images is the manor house, appearing in several of the photos.

Finishing the first album, I continue to sip on my wine and put the book aside and move to the next one, pre-'70s: same thing, people, groups, picnics, and the manor.

I move on to the 3rd and 4th albums. I don't notice anything different; however, as I get towards the end of the 4th book, I see that the images are now in color and also have little comments underneath, such as: ' Féile an Mhadaidh 1960' and ˈsˠəuɪnʲ 1965'.

Pouring my third glass, the bottle now empty, I move to the 5th book. Turning the pages, I begin to see another shift. These images are dated after 1970, and I think I can pick out the miniature child versions of my mother and father in some of them.

They did say they grew up in similar circles, but...

Now that the pictures are in color, I can make out more of the surroundings. The pine trees and valleys are similar to the ones on the Spur.

Each page shows my parents aging, from toddlers to youths to adults, the comments under each image still containing the words: ' Féile an Mhadaidh 1985' and ˈsˠəuɪnʲ 1990'.

Moving to the last page, the photo, slightly larger than the others, is another image taken in front of the massive log manor. I can see that my parents are standing together amongst a group of others. My father's arm is wrapped around my mother's small shoulder, and they aren't alone this time. Clutched in her arms is a chubby bundle, all gums, smiling at the camera, the wording under this image: 'Samhain 1992 The Ranch'.

The Ranch? The Ranch? Where have I heard that name before?

Grabbing one of the albums that I discarded before, the year 1991, embroidered into the leather, I open it and search for more photos of The Ranch.

I'm disappointed when I find nothing, just lots of images of myself as a baby, my parents and some friends, all taken here in my hometown. There are however several sections that have blank spaces, as if the images have been removed.

Opening the next one and the next, they are all the same—no Ranch images.

Hitting a dead-end, the pain in my lower regions becoming unbearable, and feeling hot, I leave the albums on the bed and head downstairs for some painkillers and another bottle.