The night sways as you walk, careful and laboured, toward a bright light. An engine hums.
I curl into you, shaking. Rain drums against metal. For a moment, the cold feels further away.
“Shh,” you murmur, fingers in my hair. “It’s alright.”
I believe you.
Blue light flashes through my lashes. Sirens blur into the fog.
And then the world disappears.
36
Where I Land
Lily-Anne
I don’t remember them taking my clothes off, or how I got into the hospital bed. I vaguely remember the ambulance.
My teeth won’t stop chattering—not even under blankets.
They check my blood pressure and place warm packs beneath my gown. I flinch every time. It’s like they’re sliding hot, damp bricks along my skin, searing my limbs and my stomach.
Later, a resident comes by.
“Your ankle’s very swollen,” he says. “We won’t know the full extent until you’ve had radiographs in the morning, but we suspect it’s a fracture—broken.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” Ellenor mutters under her breath as he leaves.
Painkillers. IV fluids. Everything is softened around the edges.
No catheter, at least—but then the nurse wheels in the bedside commode and it makes me wish I had one. It’s mortifying, but I’m too dizzy to argue as a male nurse joins us and helps shift me into the chair.
At least Brandon’s stepped out of the room.
My teeth eventually stop their violent chattering, though the shivers keep rippling through me in aftershocks. At some point, the nurses dim the lights, tuck the blankets tighter around me, and murmur something about ‘keeping an eye on your temp’ as they check the IV line.
I think I nod. Or maybe I just think about nodding, but the effort required seems monumental.
Ellenor is curled in the visitor chair. Brandon sits on the edge of my bed holding a clipboard, though his eyes are glazed. As if sensing my stare, he looks up. His eyes lock on mine, tense and watchful.
“Try to sleep,” he says softly.
I close my eyes, drifting, but my skin can’t make up its mind. Too hot one second, freezing the next. My forehead feels thick and foggy, and my gown clings to my damp back.
Someone says something about antibiotics.
The heat crawls up my neck, too hot, suffocating, my teeth clicking as my ankle throbs.
I drift.
The world rocks gently, like the tide pulling at my bed, and I float through the black of a familiar nightmare.
Shaky footage of a tiny craft in the distance, rotor blades a spinning blur as it drifts through the air—and then, without warning, it drops out of the sky. People scream as they notice the sudden descent. Compared to movies, the explosion was undramatic. ‘Disappointing,’ I overheard someone say at school.
But then why did the tourists filming on the bridge scream?
They assured me he didn’t suffer. It was quick.Painless.
