Why don’t my muscles want to respond to my commands?
Panic blooms into full-blown terror. Clawing. Tearing. Snatching at my breath.
Something is wrong.
Something happened. Something bad.
Fear works its way up my throat, escaping in a low, frightened moan.
With the sound, relief surges, albeit briefly.
Icanhear.
But as things come back into focus, I realize that doesn’t make sense.
If I was sleeping, my cochlear implants shouldn’t be on. They should be in the charger on my bedside table.
Did I go out for drinks with Jenna last night? Have one too many while commiserating about boyfriend troubles? Did I fall into bed with my implants still on, even though I haven’t done that since Fiona and Aidy got me drunk for my twenty-first birthday?
Jenna.
There’s a yawning blank with her name on it.
Did she break up with Greg? Did he cheat on her?
The dread builds.
Why can’t I remember?
Ineedto remember.
This time when I tell my arm to move, it does.
And I manage to pry my eyes open.
At first, all I see is a wash of white.
My heart nearly explodes with fear.
Am Iblindnow? Was there some fluke complication that’s been lurking in my body, waiting to strike until nearly twenty years later?
Another scared cry escapes.
Tears burn behind my eyes.
“Bea. It’s okay.”
The masculine rumble is foreign and familiar at the same time.
A warm hand touches mine. “Bea,” the man continues in a low, soothing tone, “You’re okay. You’re safe.”
I blink several times to clear my vision, hoping and praying it works.
“It’s okay,” he repeats. “I know this is scary. And you’re probably still disoriented right now. But it’ll come back. Just give it some time.”
As the blurriness fades, a man’s face comes into view.
Striking blue eyes meet mine.
