My mouth tastes like death.
I manage to pry my eyes open and immediately feel the wrath of hell ripping through my right arm. My hand has been bandaged in so many layers of gauze it’s rendered my 5 fingers immobile and I find I’m grateful for it.
I’m so exhausted I don’t have the energy to cry.
I blink.
Try to look around but my neck is too stiff.
Fingers brush my shoulder and I discover myself wanting to exhale. I blink again. Once more. A girl’s face blurs in and out of focus. I turn my head to get a better view and blink blink blink some more.
“How’re you feeling?” she whispers.
“I’m okay,” I say to the blur, but I think I’m lying. “Who are you?”
“It’s me,” she says. Even without seeing her clearly I can hear the kindness in her voice. “Sonya.”
Of course.
Sara is probably here, too. I must be in the medical wing. “What happened?” I ask. “How long have I been out?” She doesn’t answer and I wonder if she didn’t hear me.
“Sonya?” I try to meet her eyes. “How long have I been sleeping?” “You’ve been really sick,” she says. “Your body needed time—” “How long?” My voice drops to a whisper.
“Three days.”
I sit straight up and know I’m going to be sick.
Luckily, Sonya’s had the foresight to anticipate my needs. A bucket appears just in time for me to empty the meager contents of my stomach into it and then I’m dry-heaving into what is not my suit but some kind of hospital gown and someone is wiping a hot, damp cloth across my face.
Sonya and Sara are hovering over me, the hot cloths in their hands, wiping down my bare limbs, making soothing sounds and telling me I’m going to be fine, I just need to rest, I’m finally awake long enough to eat something, I shouldn’t be worried because there’s nothing to worry about and they’re going to take care of me.
But then I look more closely.
I notice their hands, so carefully sheathed in latex gloves; I notice the IV stuck in my arm; I notice the urgent but cautious way they approach me and then I realize the problem.
The healers can’t touch me.
