Chapter 32. Memories Are Made in Vegas

For the first time in almost twenty years, Carlos thought back to the day he lost his mother. He could hardly remember the events of that day, hardly remember the woman even beyond certain bits and pieces—his birthdays, nights when he could not sleep, the scent of her perfume.

He remembered that he had held her in his arms when she died, struggling to pull her close with his spindly arms, but she had felt so heavy and so cold. He couldn’t even remember her face in that moment; all he saw whenever he tried to recall was a blur. Like any child as small as he was, he was traumatized by having to deal with something so overwhelming, but the orphanage and the foster homes didn’t offer therapy, and he had to live with it.

His theory was that his memories were wiped to keep him sane. His mind wanted to protect him, and that’s why he couldn’t remember much. He had long since developed a habit of running away from his problems, avoiding them long enough to pretend they didn’t ex