What's going on?

She looks down at her body.

She's… small. Maybe 3 or 4 feet tall?

That feels right, but it doesn't feel usual. She's— it: it's definitely an "it"—it's pretty sure it used to be taller than this.

And that's strange, isn't it? It should know what it's used to looking like, but it doesn't seem to have any memories of—actually, any memories at all.

Ok, time to take stock: Its name is Mae, it's—oh, now that's interesting: it can't remember anything about its life, but it knows that it's 27 years old!

So it was—arguably is—an adult, but this body definitely isn't. It's definitely feeling kind of excited about that—if a bit apprehensive.

Ok, so it's Mae, it's 27, it's in the body of a child, and it doesn't have any long-term memories of its life.

…Does it have any other sorts of memories?

It runs through an exercise, and… huh.

It appears to be able to remember the names of several memorization techniques, which it has arbitrarily memorized as a test of a different technique that's not on that list of names.

Entertaining.

Anything else stored that way?

…The pronunciation of a Japanese name, apparently…

…An ordered list of video-game-associated tarot cards…

…An index for a todo list, a mental stack, a scratchpad, and… something denoted by a spiral, but that isn't clearly labeled. None of them are attached to any long-term memories, so they must have been for shorter-term use.

…

…Ok, so it apparently hasn't memorized anything useful that way, but at least that confirms its memory is otherwise working.

Enough time in its head, though: where is it? This place doesn't look familiar.

It looks around itself.

Mae finds itself on a short block, the kind you get in one of those bigger cities with long and narrow blocks, one side of the street dominated by the fenced backyards of two large houses, the other by a set of Edwardian rowhouses in different colors, each built overtop its own garage, with stairs up to the entryway, with a porch on the right and a bay window on the left, and another floor above. The nearest one, close to the end of the block, is painted a cozy-looking dark purple, and has a little pride flag in the window. A two-door Honda Accord painted in a deep, almost black shade of purple sits in the driveway. The other houses down the block are painted light blue, or cheery yellow, or white, or cream, or beige, with everything from sedans to pickup trucks parked out front in a variety of more pedestrian colors.

No one else seems to be on the street just now.

Hmm… no people?

It walks over to the nearest house—it's really pretty, and it is now being reminded by the flag that it itself is gay—and picks up the newspaper sitting there.

…It's… oh good, it's local paper! The San Francisco Chronicle, March 17, 2008.

Wow, that… that's a while earlier than it was expecting, isn't it? That gives it so much time to— to what? The connection isn't there, and it can't remember anything about what that gives it time to do.

Damn.

There's also some sort of specific mental connection associated with the year. 2008…

…

Nope, that connection doesn't lead anywhere, either.

Damn, these blanks are annoying.

And specific: It can remember facts about itself, but it can't remember anything about its life, or anything related to the year.

That… doesn't seem to be how it thinks amnesia is supposed to work.

…Can it remember anything about earlier years?

…Yes! 2001: The twin towers fell that year, and… something else that's blanked.

These blanks are very specific, then.

Before it can think much longer, it's startled by the door suddenly opening, and an equally surprised-looking woman looks out from behind it.

Small child at the bottom of her stairs. This is new. Hope the poor dear's not in trouble.

"Well hello!" The woman's voice is warm, cheerful, and a bit bouncy, despite the noticeable hint of concern. "Are you lost, sweetie?"

She's about 5'8" tall, with purple hair tied back in a braid draping down her back, a lean frame, and modestly full but perky curves.

Pretty!

Ok, no, that's really not helpful, brain.

What did she say, again? Oh, yeah, it supposes it is lost.

It sets down the newspaper.

"I think so—I suppose I know I'm in San Francisco now, but I don't know anything beyond that about where I am—I don't think I've ever been here before…"

Its words trail off contemplatively.

"Oh sweetie, that's no fun at all. Can I get you a snack or a drink or something while we figure out if there's anywhere you'd rather be than right here? Are you cold?"

Shit shit shit, okay. Lost child. 

Not going to show any of the panic on her face at all, but holy shit.

So the Officially Normal thing to do here is call the cops or take the kid to the police station.

But cops suck. She does not trust them, as an institution.

But if anyone's going to be able to figure out if this child has been reported missing, it's the cops.

But what if the kid's a runaway and the parents suck? Then the best thing for the kid is to stay put and not go back.

Aaaaa?

No, just see what the kid can tell her.

Awww, that's so nice!

Or, well, it supposes it might do something similar in this situation itself, but still!

"Oh, thank you! I'd love a snack and a drink—it is a bit cold out here. Do you have tea?"

It follows the friendly woman inside.