Once the door clicked shut, I exhaled deeply, and tried to find some inner calm. Three weeks. Three whole weeks confined to this bed, unmoving, helpless.
A horrifying realization struck.I probably reek.
I wrinkled my nose, and grabbed the hem of my T-shirt, lifting it for a cautious sniff.
To my surprise—and slight amazement—I didn’t stink. Not even a little. I blinked, stunned. Had someone washed me?
Oh gods, please tell me it wasn’t James.
The idea of him seeing me naked for the first time—pale, limp, and about as attractive as a deflated balloon—was almost enough to make me die of secondhand embarrassment.
Desperate to shake off the mental image, I scanned the room and spotted another door tucked in the corner. A bathroom, thank the gods—the sole thought of a shower enough to send me into a full-blown mental orgasm.
Bracing myself, I pushed off the bed, determined to make it on my own in one go. The moment I left the soft edges of the mattress, however, my vision funneled, and for a second, I wasn’t sure which way was up. My limbs felt foreign, weak—likeI’d been stripped of gravity and dropped back into my body too fast.
I reached for something, anything, but my hands didn’t respond well, already shaking from the effort. My legs buckled, and I flopped back onto the bed with the grace of a turtle attempting parkour.
Well. That was elegant.
Now what?
I probably should’ve called for help, but the thought of someone witnessing my pathetic attempt at mobility? Yeah, no thanks. So, I did the only sensible thing I could think of. I stayed exactly where I was, marinating in the humiliation of being outdone by a few measly steps.
A cane would be nice right about now.
The thought had barely finished forming when out of nowhere, a brown cane popped into existence right in front of me.
What the?—
It was simply floating there, wrapped in my red haze like it came straight out of a discount bin at a failed fantasy convention for the elderly.
I blinked, my thoughts scrambling over one another, desperate to make sense of what just happened.
Did I just translate a cane?
Tentatively, I reached for it, my trembling fingers curling around the handle. It appeared to be real—solid, tangible.
I gasped as the realization hit me like a jolt. I had translated a cane. An actual cane. And for the first time, it didn’t come with my life hanging by a thread.
Swallowing hard, I gripped the handle and tried to use it to push myself off the bed once more.
Herculean effort aside, it turned out the cane was more decorative than functional. My knees gave out, and I collapsedback onto the bed with all the dramatic flair of a dying Victorian widow.
Motherf—
Who was I kidding? A cane wouldn’t cut it. I needed something sturdier—like a walker. The gold standard of geriatric chic.
No sooner had the thought crossed my mind than,poof, a walker appeared right beside the bed.
Hovering only for a second, it quickly settled on the ground with a soft clink.
Wow.
Now wide awake, my heart was thudding like I had run a marathon. The bathroom, the discomfort of being stuck in bed—all of it faded into the background. This was truly happening. At last, I could translate without the threat of imminent death hanging over me!
Oh my gods. This changedeverything.
Eager to put this theory to the test, I focused my thoughts. What to manifest first?
