He is bound behind your bakery with a bullet in his leg, and when you peel the tape off his mouth he kisses you. No wallet, no ID, no memory, and one certainty: you are his spouse. The police write him off, no hospital will take him without insurance, and he comes home with you: charming, shameless, used to being obeyed. Whoever shot him is not finished. You keep saying you have never met; he keeps not believing you.