“I don’t know.” Breakfast at the cabin feels like it happened in another lifetime. “I’m not hungry.”
“Doesn’t matter. You need fuel.” He stands. “I’ll grab something from the cafeteria. Watch Ben?”
“Yeah. Of course.”
He leaves.
It’s just me and Ben and Marco now. The three of us in this small room with the beeping monitors and the smell of antiseptic and the weight of everything that happened pressing down like gravity.
I squeeze Marco’s hand. Still nothing.
“Come on,” I whisper. “Wake up. Please wake up.”
The monitors keep beeping.
Ben keeps staring.
And I keep holding on.
Because what else can I do?
40
Marco
The first thing I register is pain.
Not the dull ache of a hangover or the burn of touching a hot pan. This is something else entirely. A living thing with teeth that gnaws through every nerve ending from my face to my shoulder. Like someone’s dragging a white-hot poker across my skin and won’t stop. Won’t ever fucking stop.
The second thing I register is beeping. Steady. Mechanical. Monitors.
Hospital.
I’m in a hospital.
My eyes crack open. The light is dim but still feels like knives. Everything’s fuzzy around the edges. Soft focus. Like looking through gauze.
Wait. That’s not metaphorical. There is gauze. Wrapped around my head. I can feel it. Tight. Restrictive. Covering most of my face.
I turn my head. The movement sends fresh sparks of pain radiating across my face but I don’t care. Ineed to understand where I am. What happened. How bad it is.
The room swims into focus slowly. Piece by piece. Like a kitchen coming online before service.
Pain.
Monitors first. Three of them mounted on a rolling stand. Lines trace across screens in steady rhythms. Green. Red. Numbers that probably mean something to someone who isn’t me.
Agony.
Electrodes. I can feel them now that I’m looking. Stuck to my chest. My good shoulder. Wires trailing away like pasta pulled too thin.
Pain.
An IV line snakes from my right arm to a bag hanging above. Clear liquid dripping steady. Morphine? Maybe something else. I don’t know. Whatever it is, it’s not working, not keeping the fire at bay.
Agony.
A call button on a control bar resting close to my fingers. I grip the bar frantically, press the call button.
