The Hedge

You approach the hedge, your interest drawn in particular to the patch of bare branches near the bottom. It appears as if something broke through at one point, like a rabbit or a stray cat. 

You squat down and examine the scuffed earth beneath the hedge. Spots of darkened dirt, as though wet, trail under the hedge. With a finger, you press into one of the splotches. A ruddy streak is left behind — blood?

You flatten yourself onto your stomach to look through the opening. As a breeze kicked up, a piece of paper snagged on a stick rustles. You reach into the tunnel of snapped branches and pluck it out.

When you examine the note, parts of it are illegible. What you can make out reads something like this:

Remember: Your name is [illegible]

The time and date is [illegible]

Find the house. The address is 

[illegible]

You fold the note and shove it into your pocket. For some reason, it feels familiar.