He tittered. “Do you know where you are?”
I didn’t need to look around to know, but for the sake of sanity, I answered. “Hospital.”
He nodded. “That’s right. You’re at Methodist University. I’m Dr. Channin Rogers. Do you know what happened?”
I tried to think, but it was hazy. I remembered the house. Drinking. Crying. Pills…
“I don’t…um…I don’t remember,” I admitted, throat tight.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like shit,” I muttered.
He didn’t flinch. “Any pain? Scale of one to ten.”
I shifted against the thin mattress, every muscle screaming. “Throat…like razor blades. Stomach hurts. Head pounding…seven…eight, maybe.”
“Any nausea?”
“Everything’s fuzzy. In and out,” I admitted, closing my eyes against the fluorescent lights.
“That’s normal given what your body’s been through. Should clear as the meds work out of your system.” He set the tablet onhis lap, leaned forward, and adjusted his sleeves. “Ms. Jones, I need to ask you some questions about last night. Can you walk me through it?”
My stomach twisted. “I don’t…don’t really remember much.”
“That’s okay. Just tell me what you do remember. Start from the beginning of the evening.”
I swallowed hard, throat burning. “I was at home…at the house.”
“Your house?”
“My boyfriend’s house.” The words tasted bitter.
“What time?”
“Evening…maybe yesterday was my birthday.”
“And what were you doing?”
“Drinking.” I looked away, focusing on the muted TV.
“How much?”
“A lot. Half the bottle? Maybe more…”
Dr. Rogers nodded, expression neutral. “And at some point you took pills. Do you remember that?”
My chest tightened. “No.” I lied, as if he didn’t already know.
“You know…if you struggle with addiction, there are places I can recommend?—”
“Yesterday was my fuckin’ birthday. So it’s a crime to drink?” I snapped. “I’m not a junkie. Not an addict.”
“Do you remember how many pills?”
I tried to pull up the memory, fragmented like shattered glass. “No.”
“Are you suicidal?”
