There are names for what binds us:
Strong forces, weak forces.

- For What Binds Us by Jane Hirshfield

On a cold October evening, Morgan Scout falls off a bridge. 
The earth tilts on its axis --
-- a blanket of black, stars, darkness and suddenly, the sky is her world's ceiling. 
Wind whips through her coat like knives, blurring her vision of the starry night above her.
The sky hushes, waits --
-- and Morgan realizes she is about to die.
I don't want to die I want to live spirals around in her head; then, screams pour out of her lips. 
She can't die yet, she can't --
-- Water. Freezing waves envelop her as she sinks, sinks even as she tries to claw her way back to the surface.
So this is how one dies of drowning --
The air gushes out of her lungs, her head tearing with the force of a supernova, a second stretched to infinity and pain, pain all over -- 
-- all of a sudden, nothing.

And then, there was light.
Albeit a blinding white light, and Morgan is confused.
Is this Heaven? She tries to open an eyelid, but a strange heaviness weighs down on her and she can't move. Suddenly, her ears are ringing, and she tries to lift her hands to her ears, but they don't move at her sides. 
Then, her vision clears.
Morgan blinks, the image of white walls slightly coming into focus. A few more blinks, and she realizes she is in a room, lying down on a bed.
Her eyes trace the blurry edges of the window, the chair at her bedside; then, her gaze rests on the IV pierced into her skin.
Her mind snaps to attention.
Where am I how did I get here what's wrong with me someone anyone please tell me --
"She's awake!"
Morgan's gaze snaps to the direction of the voice, hope alighting inside of her. Finally, other people she can ask about her predicament. And she can't be imagining voices now.
(She's vaguely terrified that she might be.)
A few seconds of held breath later, a parade of doctors spill into the room, a flurry of white coats all headed in her direction.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she braces herself.
"Hello, sweetheart." She opens her eyes, wary of the smell of antiseptic now hanging in the air. A doctor looks down at her with a smile. "It's alright -- do you know your name?"
Well. She tilts her head thoughtfully, sifting through her mind.
My name is Morgan. Morgan --
-- she stops. She doesn't remember her last name. 
Panic flares inside of her, the cardiac monitor betraying her fear, the beeps coming out faster and more erratic.
No no no no no I need to get out of here --
Distantly, she registers the sharp jab of a needle against her flesh. Her world darkens, and disappears all together.

My name is Morgan J. Scout.
She opens her eyes. The silence is almost deafening after the crowd of doctors disappear, but she allows herself to indulge in it. Anything to prepare her for the next time they come bursting into the room.
From the corner of her eye, Morgan watches the birds flying outside her window, and wonders if she'll ever be able to walk outside the four walls she's enclosed in. 
"Good morning, Miss."
Her eyes flick to the door at the edge of her vision as it opens wider, revealing the nurse who greeted her.
Suddenly, she feels starving for any kind of conversation with another person.
She opens her mouth and says hello, half-expecting a growl or a scratchy whine, but no sound reaches her ears.
Morgan flinches. No, that can't be right. She tries again, focusing on the sound and shape of the word on her lips. Hello.
Again, nothing.
She screams, voicelessly, her body thrashing until the nurse notices, pokes her with a needle and she blacks out again. 

Morgan wakes up with a headache and her limbs drenched in sweat. 
"Dear, please don't overexert yourself." The nurse smiles from where she stands at Morgan's bedside. Morgan stops herself from jerking away; getting knocked out again is something she does not want to experience. "Don't be afraid. You woke up from a very long sleep."
She raises a quivering eyebrow at this, knowing she's mature enough to know she just woke up from a coma. A coma, and they all treat it like an afternoon nap in front of her.
"You've been unconscious for about five months. We'll have to put you through rehabilitation once you're capable of leaving your bed, but that won't be a problem, Miss." The woman nods firmly. "We've contacted your relatives --" She has relatives? "-- and we understand your current -- let's say, situation, so the doctors believe it would be best if you are to stay here. Is that alright, dear?" Morgan nods weakly. "Good -- now, all expenses have already been taken care of by your folks --"
She tunes out the nurse's voice and closes her eyes, the weight of her situation bearing down on her. Her predicament's crystal clear, now that she can think clearly.
"Now, I know this may come as a shock to you, but -- well, I'm afraid you can't talk anymore, dear." Morgan can feel her skin prickling. "You have a minor case of serious brain damage, but it seems only your speech, your memory and some basic motor skills were severly affected." She doesn't know if she should start jumping for joy or bursting into tears. 
Maybe both. 
"You're quite lucky, young lady. And you'll be back to normal in no time at all, believe me." Morgan heroically resists rolling her eyes against the nurse's sunny smile.
Now, that is something she finds hard to believe.

It's a few days later when someone finally asks her the question.
"Do you remember anything, Miss Scout?"
Morgan glances at the nurse; her mind slows to a stop. Her memories are in a confusing patchwork of bits and pieces that she can't, for the life of her, put together or make sense of. She remembers faces (her parents? her relatives?). A dizzying plethora of images whiz through her mind, some bearing vague familiarity and others complete obscurity. She remembers sunlight, laughter, and bright skies. She remembers tears, failures, and bruises on her arms.
She remembers a bridge. (And cold, cold water.)
The nurse places a hand on Morgan's shoulder. "It's fine if you don't." She huffs in relief. "You'll remember everything, eventually." 
She hopes so.

Slowly, the gaps in her memory come trickling back. 
She realizes she is better off not remembering.
Morgan remembers birthdays, playgrounds and a happy childhood. She remembers losing her father to the war at seven years old, remembers watching her mother descend into alcoholism and affairs for five years, remembers losing her father for good at thirteen. She remembers being passed around as a foster child because none of her relatives would take her in.
She remembers falling off a bridge and plunging into the frigid waves of a river on the eve of her fourteenth birthday. 
(Only, she doesn't remember why she fell off the bridge in the first place.)

"Hello, Miss Scout." A nurse pokes her head through the open door. Morgan tries to sit up. "No, no -- there's no need for that." She settles back down. "I'm just here to check up on you."
As the woman flits into the room, Morgan entertains herself with the Rubik's Cube given to her to play with. Engrossed with solving the thing, she isn't prepared when a voice pops into her mind.
-- ugh, I'm so tired, but Anna's going to kill me if I sleep on the job --
She stops mid-twist, dragging her gaze from the cube to the wall. What was that?
-- laundry, and I have to pick up the groceries, God help me --
Now, she's just confused. (And a little intrigued.)
-- okay, what's next on the list -- oh, I need to take blood, obviously --
She feels the tendrils of frustration curl around her mind. Where are those thoughts coming from --
"Miss, can you please hold out your arm?" Her attention snaps back to the nurse hovering over her, a syringe in one hand. "I have to take some blood samples."
Morgan blinks. Closes her open mouth.
Oh.

On a cold October morning, Morgan Scout realizes she can hear people's thoughts.

"I have always depended on the kindness of strangers."
- Tennessee Williams

For Morgan, adjusting to her newfound freedom is somewhat of a struggle. 
"Miss, are you okay?" She looks up at the man she bumped into and smiles apologetically before inching away.
The rehabilitation center had been her home for the last three years. Seeing as how she's kept her telepathy and sanity in check by limiting the amount of minds she comes in contact with, the sudden impact of too many minds on her awareness leaves a rather profound effect on her.
She feels slightly drunk.
"Watch out!" Morgan narrowly avoids colliding with a woman leading a train of kids behind her. Steadying herself, she curls her fingers into her palm and rotates her hand on her chest. Sorry.
Learning sign language is decisively easier with telepathy; she can attest. Re-educating herself in communication was tiring enough. Reading the minds of the caregivers trying to teach her a new language made everything easier. At least now she's found a way to communicate. 
But, then again --
The woman raises an eyebrow and turns on her heel leading the group of children, continuing their trek without another word to her. Morgan sighs.
Even with her sign language, other normal people wouldn't even understand her anyway.
Pulling absentmindedly at the strap of her bag, Morgan takes a deep breath and looks up at the wispy clouds. She'll be fine. 
After all, she's a survivor.

It doesn't take long for her to think she might be going insane, though.
Eyeing the man casually staring at her from a bench, Morgan gulps and wrenches her gaze away from the stranger, decidedly fixing her gaze on the bus stop sign beside her.
This is ridiculous, when she thinks about it. She knows she can't judge people she doesn't know based on whatever they happen to be doing near her. But she can feel intense interest radiating from the man and frankly, she's a little paranoid that the aforementioned interest is focused on her.
For the millionth time, Morgan wishes she didn't fall off that stupid bridge in the first place.
Her eyes flicking back to the man, she quickly looks away when she's caught staring at him. In the corner of her eye, Morgan tries subtletly to memorize the man's appearance in the slight off-chance that he might come over and do something illegal.
Insane and paranoid it is.
The man is devastatingly attractive, to be honest, but Morgan isn't necessarily attracted. She traces his physique, noting that he wears the black suit he has very well. He lifts a hand and runs it through his blond hair before pushing his glasses further up his nose, and she is suddenly gazing into icy blue eyes looking at her.
Morgan flinches. The blond had caught her staring again. He shakes his head and smirks.
As much as she wants to give the man a little mental nudge to look away, she controls herself. Manipulating strangers is something she'd rather not do unless the circumstances call for it.
The circumstances do call for it, Morgan, her conscience whispers. She shakes her head and ignores it.
Then, he stands up.
Nonononono go away don't hurt me please --
She almost bolts for the nearest building when the man approaches her.
"Hello there."
Morgan pins him with a look that should clearly drive the man away without speaking. He doesn't move.
"Don't look so suspicious, sweetheart; I'm not going to kidnap you." She takes a step back. The man chuckles. "Really! I'm a friend."
Her conscience is screaming at her to run away from the stranger and maybe call the police, but her curiousity gets the better of her and she stands her ground. The aura of friendliness exuding from the man isn't helping matters.
"Go ahead, ask me. Don't worry; I do know sign language."
That makes her freeze. And take another step back, just in case.
"And yes, I know you can't talk." Maybe she should call the cops on him. "See? Is this not a sign that I'm a friend?"
Morgan furrows her eyebrow, raising her hands to sign. "Who are you?"
"Alright, basics first, I understand." The blond rubs his chin thoughtfully, then grins. "Finnegan Johnson, at your service." He sweeps his arms wide and bows spectacularly. Morgan is tempted to applaud. "Though, you can call me Finn."
Distractedly forming the letters O and K with her free hand, she pulls her bag up from sliding over her shoulder before raising her hands again. "How do you know me?"
"I'm a friend of a family friend of yours. We know all about you, Morgan. And before you find that statement undoubtedly creepy --" Finn winks as the sentence registers on her mind. "-- I've come with a proposition."
Morgan lifts a curious eyebrow, clenching her sweaty palms to calm herself.
"We know all about your little -- let's say, problem, with accommodation and living conditions and what-not. Not exactly in the work force bracket yet, are you?" She feels vaguely insulted. "So, I'd like to -- in behalf of my colleague and our little family over there -- we'd like to invite you to live with us. Everything you can possibly need will be provided. You wouldn't have to want for anything anymore, Morgan." Finn smiles.
Having been brought up by multiple strangers over the course of her childhood, Morgan knows she'll reject the offer, no matter how convenient it is. Even with the tender fragments of hospitality unfurling from the man's mind.
She's been alienated for far too long already. Her fragile disposition couldn't possibly take much more disappointment.  
"Thanks but no thanks." She pauses, knowing she has to come up with a good reason to decline. "I don't really know if I can trust you." That should suffice. Morgan takes a step back and strengthens her resolve to walk away. Maybe it's for the best that I don't accept his --
"My friend knew your father."
-- she freezes mid-turn. Wait --
Morgan faces him again and holds her trembling hands in front of her. "What?" It takes all her focus to resist delving into the man's mind. Distantly, a muffled wave of triumph washes over her, obviously coming from Finn.
"He's actually -- my friend, that is -- he's actually tasked to take care of you when no one else will." Her eyebrows furrow. She swallows down a scathing remark about abandonment. "Trust me when I say we've spent the last four years looking for you."
Morgan doesn't move a muscle. She can barely breathe air into her lungs by now.
"If you don't believe me, that's fine." She watches with mild horror as Finn adopts the expression of a wounded puppy. "But if you ever need a place to go --" He reaches out to her, and her eyes latch onto the white gloves on his hands. "-- we're just a call away if you need us." Finn clasps her hand and subtlety slides a piece of paper onto her palm. She watches as he curls her fingers over it. "I hope we'll be receiving that phone call soon." Giving her one last crooked smile and a final bow, the blond turns and slowly walks away.
Morgan is torn between diving into Finn's mind to find out the truth and running for the hills. Unfortunately, she'll look like a madwoman (which she may or may not be) and there are no hills in sight, so she steels herself and lets her power reach towards the man's mind.
She doesn't have to dig too deep where she isn't wanted; she isn't about to violate her own morals. She simply wants to know if the man claiming to be a friend is really genuine. 
Closing her mental ears from hearing his thoughts, she skims the surface of his mind, deliberately ignoring how tempting his psyche is. 
Morgan's telepathy makes her appreciate the depth and quality of other minds, and this one is no different. She's almost surprised at the amount of information in Finn's mind. His mind even has a different aura to it, somehow. Vastly different from anyone she's come across. But before she can think too deeply about that, she comes across it.
He's telling the truth.
Without conscious provocation, Morgan's body lurches forward a few steps, her hand shooting outward to clutch onto his coat. Finn stops and looks over his shoulder at her, an eyebrow raised and his mouth twitching.
"I guess I'll take you up on that offer." Finn's eyes widen, then his lips lift cheerfully, his grin looking very much like the Cheshire Cat's. It looks horrifyingly charming. She falters. "But that doesn't mean I trust you yet."
He laughs, golden hair tousling over his forehead. "That's understandable, but amendable. We'll be great friends in the future, I tell you." 
The blond man winks, and Morgan somehow believes him.