My heart monitor.
I force my eyes open.
The light is too bright.
I squeeze them shut, try again.
Slower this time.
Letting my vision adjust.
A ceiling comes into focus.
Concrete, painted white.
Fluorescent lights overhead.
The medical room at the clubhouse.
I'm alive.
I made it.
I turn my head—slowly, everything feels slow—and there she is.
Ingrid.
Curled up in a chair beside my bed, wrapped in a blanket that I recognize from my room.
Her red hair is tangled, pulled back in a messy ponytail.
Dark circles under her eyes.
Wearing what looks like one of my t-shirts.
She's asleep, but even in sleep she looks exhausted.
Worn down.
Like she's been fighting a battle of her own while I was unconscious.
How long has she been here?
How long have I been out?
I try to speak, but my throat is sandpaper.
Dry and cracked and useless.
I swallow.
Try again.
"In... grid..."
Her name comes out as a rasp.
Barely audible.
