He leaves before I can throw a pillow at him.
4
JOSIE
Sleep, it turns out, is not on the menu.
Every time I start to drift off, discomfort pulls me back—the throb of my ribs, the ache in my wrist, the way my head pulses in time with my heartbeat like a bass drum playing inside my skull. The pain meds help, but they make everything fuzzy and strange, turning the hospital room into a funhouse of shifting shadows and too-bright lights.
It’s after midnight when I finally give up.
I lie there in the darkness, staring at the ceiling tiles, counting the tiny holes in them because I’ve already counted sheep and that hasn’t worked either. The hospital is quieter now—fewer footsteps in the hallway, fewer beeps and buzzes from the nurses’ station. Just the steady rhythm of machines and the soft sound of movement from behind the curtain.
My neighbor isn’t asleep either.
I can tell by the quality of her restlessness that she’s also uncomfortable. It’s there in the shift of sheets, the creak ofthe bed frame, the occasional exhale that sounds more like frustration than relaxation.
“You’re not fooling anyone with the fake sleeping,” I say into the darkness.
“Neither are you.”
“Fair point.” I shift against my pillows, wincing. “Can’t shut my brain off.”
“Join the club.”
I wait to see if she’ll offer anything else. She doesn’t.
“So,” I try again. “What’s keeping you up? Besides the obvious.”
“The obvious?”
“Hospital beds. Fluorescent lights. The existential dread of being trapped in a building that smells like antiseptic and shit-rus.”
A short sound—almost a laugh, quickly suppressed. “Shit-rus?”
“Don’t tell me you think the strong citrus and poop smell is nice.”
She snorts.
“Want to talk about it?” I ask.
“No.”
Well. That’s clear enough.
I should let it go, respect her boundaries and mind my own business. But years of working with victims has given me finely tuned instincts, and every single one of them is screaming that something is very wrong with the woman behind the curtain.
“You know,” I say carefully, “I spent almost a decade putting away men who hurt people. I’ve heard pretty much every story there is. Nothing shocks me anymore.”
“Good for you.” Her voice is cool. Distant.
“Wanna share your story?”
“I don’t have a story.”
“Everyone has a story.”
“Mine’s not interesting.”
