CHAPTER
ONE
Florian
Beep. Beep. Beep.
A mechanical tone sounds in the background like a stalled video game, which is worrisome: I do not play video games.
Normally, my alarm plays Bach, because waking up the brain in a gentle manner provides optimal performance for the rest of the day, and every day is a day for optimal performance.
My sheets are stiff and cold, and everything smells terrible, like someone has poured a strong cleaning solution around me, the kind that leaves permanent marks on surroundings if not diluted with the appropriate measurements. Shoes squeak in the distance, and muffled voices sound.
The beep-beep-beep is irritating, and even though every muscle aches—not an unusual occurrence for me—I flick my eyes open.
Wo bin ich?
Fluorescent lights stare down from the white ceiling. Anominous machine pings beside me. Wires trail from my hands.
Scheiße.
I’m in a hospital.
That is… not good.
I immediately miss my own bedroom with its ornate crown molding which does not say hockey, but which does say Mannheim. I miss my weighted blanket. I miss the fur texture of the cover of my hot water bottle and the light streaming through the large bay windows.
Hospitals mean injuries: broken legs, broken wrists. The feared concussion.
I lift my torso, ignoring the furious pain that blasts through every limb.
A dark-haired man with warm olive-toned skin sits in a chair. His curly hair pokes up in all directions, like one of the angels in paintings my mother used to drag me to see during our yearly European tour when she tried to cram as much culture in me as possible between school close and the beginning of hockey camp.
The man’s eyes are closed, and his hands are clasped together. His expression is so earnest, so sincere that something in my chest loosens, like someone has stuck my heart in one of those soapy rainbow bubbles that children blow, the kind that float toward the sky in shapes that should not be possible.
“Wer bist du?”I ask.
The man’s eyes dart open, then he jumps up. His cheeks turn pink, which is?—
Pretty. He’s pretty.
Aubergine eyeshadow sparkles, and his dark lashes are extra thick, like he’s used mascara.
My lips part.
Large, worried dark eyes stare at me. His brows are sculpted, every hair perfect, and he watches me with suchintensity that something inside me melts. He smells warm and sweet. Like vanilla? Or brown sugar? My Oma would know.
“You’re awake!” he exclaims.
Why is he speaking in English? North American English? The kind with strong Rs. The kind it takes crossing an ocean to hear.
Am I in the US? Canada? I look around.
Why do hospitals not have signs declaring which country you’re in?
“I am awake. Yes,” I say.
English was never my favorite subject in school. I preferred mathematics, chemistry, physics. Subjects with correct answers that do not involve making small talk with one’s classmates.
