“Drop it now!” I could see the whites of his eyes. He was wearing a black balaclava. Gloves. The gun…and I remembered.

Well, that was prosaic. I knew, suddenly exactly how to step inwards, a move he would not expect, to bring my hand down on his arm. The gun went flying, and then my other hand came up to grab his wrist, to spin him away from me.

Within moments, I had him in a hold, his arm against his back.

“Damn you, bitch.”

“Next time, be careful who you try to mug.” Did I march him to the cops? I kicked the gun further away, then spun him again, putting him against the wall.

It felt natural, it felt right, it felt as if this was what I was meant to be doing, had been doing my entire life. “Now, here’s what you’re going to do.” I tugged off the balaclava, looked him in the eyes.

“You’re going to go home. And then you’re going to call this number. They’ll help you.” It was a hotline I’d found out about, one that gave advice…just that…to people who didn’t know where their next meal was coming from. It was a shame we needed it, even in Northeast, which was better than Southeast, which was better than, say, Africa. But we needed it and people needed it more. Then I let him go, but not before grabbing the gun, wrapping my sleeve around my hand so it wouldn’t grow my prints. I wasn’t sure what to do with it, but he sure wasn’t going to keep it.

I really wasn’t sure what to do. He was running, the arm I’d twisted a little limp, I wasn’t sure whether I hoped I hadn’t dislocated his shoulder or not. He rather deserved it, in my mind, but he was gone. I pulled myself back together.

Somewhere, in my hidden past, I’d learned some pretty fancy self defense tricks. That was all there was to it, and amnesiacs often kept skills. Especially physical skills like that, as much muscle memory.

Yeah. That was all there was to it.