64

---

I’m sitting in the hospital room, fiddling with the edge of the blanket, when Lily and Marcus barge in, almost tripping over each other. Kate’s right behind them, her newly shaved head catching the light. I have no idea why she’s suddenly missing nearly as much hair as I am, but if she was trying to look less butch she’s certainly doing a poor job at it. If I had to guess, it’s a show of solidarity for me – a sweet gesture, but it kind of makes me feel like a magnet for pity. Not super loving with it.

“Hey, Sam!” Lily exclaims, her voice a bit too loud for the small room. She’s carrying a bag that looks like it’s about to burst.

Marcus, looming tall even in the cramped space, adjusts his thick glasses and gives me a shy smile. “Good to see you up, Sam.”

Kate, a bit too enthusiastic as usual, rushes over to my side. “We missed you so much!”

I can’t help but smile, despite the weird cocktail of happiness and sadness swirling inside me. “Missed you guys too. But, uh, Kate, your head…”

She rubs her hand over her scalp, grinning. “Yeah, thought I’d match your style. Cool, right?”

“It’s… something,” I say, choosing my words carefully.

Marcus and Lily burst into laughter, and even I can’t help but join in. The tension in the room eases a bit, replaced by the familiar warmth of friendship. Oh, friendship.

Lily plops down in the chair next to my bed and starts pulling things out of her bag. “We brought you some stuff. Comics, snacks… oh, and this weird gadget Marcus made.”

Marcus holds up a small device with blinking lights. “It’s a mini drone. Thought it might be fun to play with in here.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You made this?”

He nods, looking proud. “Yeah, been working on it for a while. It’s got a camera and everything.”

I’m genuinely impressed. “That’s really cool, Marcus. Thanks. I didn’t know you were an engineer now.”

“I’ve been working on it,” he replies, trying to downplay it.

Kate, who’s been fidgeting since she sat down, suddenly blurts out, “Did you guys hear about the new sushi place that opened near school? They have this crazy roll called the ‘Dragon’s Breath’. We should totally go when you’re out of here.”

Lily’s eyes light up. “Oh, I saw that! They have uh… that… what’s it called, the culti… canti… the really hot species of pepper? And it’s supposed to be impossible to eat.”

“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘cultivar’?” I laugh, the conversation steering away from me and my bald head. “Sounds like a challenge. Count me in.”

“Actually, can you even eat spicy things right now?” Marcus asks, fiddling with some small USB-C doohickey that looks like that thing Jordan uses to fuck with RFID chips. “You know, with the… What is it?”

“I have radiation poisoning, Marcus. And you’re right, I really shouldn’t eat anything spicy,” I answer, rubbing my smooth chin thoughtfully. “On the other hand, the doctors told me that being injured makes my regeneration speed up so maybe I could deploy some tactical habanero juice in my belly…”

“That sounds like a bad idea, sport,” Marcus shoots me down.

“Is your throw-up radioactive?” Kate asks, at basically the same time.

The dissonance makes me cough laughing.

We spend the next hour just talking, about everything and nothing. School gossip, the latest superhero news from Marcus, and even some debate about the best pizza toppings. It’s nice, feeling like a normal teenager again, even if it’s just as long as they remain in this room, within these four off-white walls. But as they talk and laugh, I can’t help but feel a bit disconnected, like I’m watching everything from the other side of a glass wall. They’re worried about me, I can tell, but they’re trying so hard to keep things light and normal.

It doesn’t take long before I begin stewing in my own funk again. Even when I don’t want to be. It just happens.

Kate, sensing the shift in mood, quickly jumps in with another story. “So, I decided to bake a cake, right? I found this recipe online that looked amazing. It was called ‘Chocolate Volcano Cake.’ Sounds epic, doesn’t it?”

Lily, already giggling, chimes in. “Oh, I saw the picture you sent. It looked more like a chocolate mudslide!”

I raise an eyebrow. I didn’t know Lily and Kate knew each other. Is this another Crossroads and Lilly situation?

“Yeah, well,” Kate continues, rolling her eyes playfully, “I might have mixed up the baking soda with the baking powder. The cake sort of… exploded in the oven.”

Marcus laughs. “Exploded? How do you explode a cake?”

Kate shrugs. “Talent, I guess. Anyway, it set off the smoke alarm, and the neighbors thought we were having a fire. The fire department showed up and everything!”

The room fills with laughter, the kind that’s genuine and contagious. For a moment, the heaviness lifts, and we’re just friends hanging out, sharing stories. Just friends. Just friends! Nothing weird here.

Lily, still chuckling, adds, “You should stick to buying cakes, Kate.”

“Yeah, probably,” Kate agrees, grinning. “But where’s the fun in that?”

The conversation shifts naturally, bouncing from topics again and again until the sun starts going down. Kate’s team made it pretty far in the state rankings for women’s basketball. Marcus is planning on auditing courses from Temple or something. But eventually, as it always does, the conversation circles back to me.

It starts with silence, like it usually does. The conversation petering out, and then everyone turning to look at my shiny head.

Marcus’s expression darkens. “You… fought the guy that killed Professor Franklin. And you survived. And you won.”

I try to deflect, feeling uncomfortable with the spotlight back on me. “Uh, well, you know. It’s not like I had much of a choice. Survival and all that. Wait, who told you?”

Kate’s expression turns earnest. “Sam, we’re not stupid. You got radiation poisoning. Then a radioactive supervillain turns himself in like two weeks later. How many radioactive supervillains do you know, Marcus?”

“Uh, do you want an actual answer to that, or…” Marcus mumbles, beginning to count on his fingers. He gets to three before Kate clasps his hands around his.

“No,” she says.

I shift uncomfortably in the bed. “Yeah, well, I’m okay now. Mostly.”

Lily nods, her expression softening. “We were all so worried, Sam. We visited you, you know.”

“Wait, you visited me while I was out?” I ask, genuinely surprised. I’m not sure why. Is it because I all but vanished from their lives, and so I expected the same in return? “I didn’t know that.”

“Of course we did,” Marcus says. “We’re your friends. We care about you. Obviously we had to figure out, you know, what hospital you were in, stuff like that, but your parents looped us in once they figured it out.”

“Is that why my two friend groups are besties now? Or I guess like… Three friend groups?” I ask, raising an eyebrow at Lily and Kate’s sudden camaraderie. Or, sudden to me. I guess it makes perfect sense to them.

Kate adds, “Yeah, that’s how we all got to know each other better. You know, mingling while you were… well, sleeping.”

“Yeah, it happens,” Lily says with a shrug. “We all just wanted to be there for you.”

The conversation continues, drifting from the serious to the silly, from the profound to the mundane. It’s a strange feeling, knowing that life went on while I was unconscious, that friendships grew and evolved in my absence. On one hand, I’m glad. I’m happy nobody’s putting anything on pause for me, not even the mountains of schoolwork sitting on my nightstand.

On the other hand, it feels sort of like slipping. Like when you walk down the stairs in the dark and miss that last step before the landing. I feel uneasy, in the lurch. Like something’s wrong and I don’t know what it is. Am I afraid that everyone’s leaving me behind? Probably.

I guess that’s for the psychologist to pick apart.

---

I’m sitting on the edge of the physical therapy mat, feeling like a lump. Everything feels weird, my body doesn’t even seem like mine. It’s like I’m learning to be a person all over again. The therapist, a guy named Matt, is way too cheerful for my mood. He’s got this big, goofy smile like he’s hosting a kids’ TV show.

“Alright, Samantha, ready to get started?” Matt asks, way too peppy. What’s the word my Mom would use? “Twee”?

“Yeah, let’s get this over with,” I mutter. I’m not in the mood for chit-chat. I just want to do this and get back to my room.

We start with some basic stretches. I can’t believe how stiff I am. It’s like my body’s made of wood, not flesh and bone. Every stretch sends a ripple of discomfort through me. It’s not really painful, just… weird. Uncomfortable.

Matt’s trying to make small talk, asking about school, my hobbies. I don’t really feel like talking, but I give him short answers. Yeah, I go to Tacony Academy. Yeah, I like to play soccer, whatever. The most basic facts possible. I don’t want this person to be my friend, because, frankly, the sooner I never have to see the inside of this place again the better. It’s not enough that I’m useless, but I’ve also gotta be REMINDED of that. Uncool!

“You’re doing great, just take it slow,” he says as I try to touch my toes and fail miserably. I’m about as flexible as a brick right now.

I let out a huff of frustration, trying to reach further, but it’s no use. “Great? I can’t even touch my toes. I used to be able to do this with my eyes closed.”

Matt chuckles, “Well, eyes closed might not be advisable right now. You’ll get there, just give it time.”

I want to snap at him, tell him time is what I don’t have, but I bite my tongue. It’s not his fault I’m like this. I really don’t have anyone to blame except myself for surviving. Ouch. That one’s bad. Let’s tuck that one back in the emotion bottle for now.

We move on to some balance exercises. Standing on one foot, then the other. It sounds easy, but I’m wobbling like a toddler taking their first steps. It’s embarrassing. I used to be able to scale brick walls with a running start and a good handhold, for crying out loud.

“You know, balance is one of the first things to go when you’re inactive,” Matt says, as if reading my mind. “But it comes back quicker than you think.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not exactly feeling optimistic,” I reply, trying not to fall over. This is ridiculous. I’m Bloodhound. I shouldn’t be struggling with standing on one foot.

We take a break, and Matt hands me a water bottle. “Hydration is key,” he says, still smiling. I take a sip, feeling the cool water slide down my throat. It’s refreshing, at least.

“So, any hobbies besides reading?” Matt asks, leaning against the wall.

I shrug. “I used to do a lot of physical stuff. Running, climbing, that sort of thing. Soccer. I used to play a lot of soccer.”

“Oh, an athlete! That’s great, it’ll help with your recovery,” he says, nodding.

I don’t have the heart to tell him that my ‘athletics’ as of late involved more sewer chases than track and field. “Sure, let’s go with that.”

I’m back on the mat, legs outstretched, trying to touch my toes again. It’s an exercise that used to be so easy, but now it feels like climbing a mountain. Matt’s right beside me, counting down the seconds. “Just a little further, Samantha. You can do it.”

I reach, my fingertips straining towards my feet, and a sharp pain shoots through my side. I wince, clenching my teeth. It feels like razors licking at my insides.

“You okay?” Matt asks, concern etching his face.

“Just… the burns,” I grit out, trying to push through the pain. “I got microwaved, apparently.”

He nods, understanding, not blinking a second at the oddity of my injury. Does everyone here already know about me? Nobody seems particularly surprised. “Take it slow. Remember, your body’s been through a lot. Let’s try something else.”

He helps me to sit up and we move on to leg lifts. Lying on my back, I raise one leg at a time. It’s supposed to strengthen my core and improve flexibility, but each lift sends a jolt of discomfort through my muscles. I can feel the weakness, the lack of use they’ve endured. It’s frustrating, to say the least.

“Good, good,” Matt encourages as I lift my leg for the umpteenth time. “Feeling any pain?”

“A bit,” I admit. “It’s like my muscles are protesting.”

“That’s normal after being inactive for a while. Just tell me if it’s too much.”

We switch to arm exercises, using light dumbbells. I can barely lift them, my arms shaking with the effort. This is ridiculous. I used to throw punches like they were nothing, and now I’m struggling with a couple of pounds. At least my knuckles are still hard enough to dent metal, even if I can’t throw them around with the force necessary.

“Steady… that’s it,” Matt guides me, his voice calm. “You’re rebuilding strength, Samantha. It’s a process.”

I nod, focusing on the movement, trying to ignore the burning sensation in my arms. It’s not just physical pain; it’s a reminder of how much I’ve lost, how much I need to regain.

Finally, the session comes to an end. I’m exhausted, both physically and mentally. The pain from the burns, the atrophy, the everything, it’s like a constant, dull ache. Like having a knife shoved in you but really slow. I would know. I’ve been stabbed a couple times.

“You did well today,” Matt says, handing me a towel. “I know it’s tough, but you’re making progress.”

I wipe my face, the towel absorbing the sweat and maybe a tear or two. “Doesn’t feel like progress,” I mutter.

“It is, trust me. Every day, you’ll get a little stronger, a little better. You’re a fighter, Samantha. I can see that.”

Do these people have a deal with someone that earns them a dollar every time they unsubtly allude to my superheroics? Come on, man. Just treat me like a normal 14 year old with severe, almost lethal radiation poisoning.

As Matt leaves, I sit there for a moment, gathering my strength. The room is quiet, just me and my thoughts. It’s going to be a long journey back to where I was. But I’ve never backed down from a challenge before, and I’m not about to start now. I take another sip of water, trying to shake off the gloom. I need to get better, not just for me, but for… well, for everything I need to do. Bloodhound isn’t done, not by a long shot.

I stand up, my legs feeling like jelly. I take a step, then another.

---

I’m sitting in a room that feels too stiff and sterile, waiting for Dr. Desai to come in. The chair’s uncomfortable, and I keep shifting, trying to find a position that doesn’t make me feel like a specimen under a microscope. The room is small, just a desk, two chairs, and a bunch of books that I guess are supposed to make me feel like this is a place of healing or something.

Dr. Desai walks in, and he’s got this calm, collected vibe about him. He doesn’t look like what I expected a therapist to look like. He’s wearing a sweater that’s got a weird pattern on it, and his hair is kind of messy. He smiles, and it’s a nice smile, but I’m already building up walls. I’m here because they think I need to be, not because I want to spill my guts to a stranger.

“Good morning, Samantha,” he says as he sits down across from me. “How are you feeling today?”

I shrug, not meeting his eyes. “Okay, I guess. Considering.”

He nods, jotting something down on his notepad. “I understand this might feel a bit uncomfortable for you. It’s okay to be hesitant about sharing.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not exactly an open book,” I admit. It’s true. I’m good at keeping things locked up tight. It’s safer that way.

“We’ll take it at your pace,” he says. “Let’s start with something simple. Can you tell me how your days have been going?”

I fiddle with the hem of my shirt, thinking. “It’s been weird. Like, I wake up, and for a second, I forget where I am. Then it all comes crashing back. The hospital, the pain, the… everything.”

“And how does that make you feel?” he asks, his voice gentle.

“Trapped, I guess. Like I’m stuck behind this pane of glass, watching the world go on without me.” I say it without thinking, and then immediately wish I hadn’t. It sounds so pathetic when I say it out loud. Silly. Dramatic.

“That sounds quite isolating,” he observes. “It’s not uncommon to feel disconnected after a traumatic experience. Have you been experiencing this feeling often?”

I nod, still playing with my shirt. “Yeah. It’s like, sometimes I’m just going through the motions. And the only time I feel… I don’t know, real, is when I’m Bloodhound. When I’m out there, doing something that matters. Beating up bad guys.”

Dr. Desai leans forward, interested. “It sounds like being Bloodhound gives you a sense of purpose, a sense of being alive.”

“Yeah, exactly,” I agree, a little surprised that he gets it. “When I’m her, I feel like I’m making a difference. Like I’m more than just some kid. And there’s nothing quite like getting punched in the face to wake you up in the morning.”

I don’t know why I said that.

He nods, making another note silently to himself. “And when you’re not Bloodhound, when you’re just Samantha?”

I hesitate, unsure how to put it into words. “It’s like I’m just… waiting. Waiting to be her again. Everything else just feels… dull. Pointless.”

“That’s a heavy burden for someone your age,” he says softly. “To feel alive only in moments of danger, of significance. It sounds like it’s a lot to carry with you.”

I shrug, uncomfortable with the turn the conversation’s taking. “I guess.”

Dr. Desai changes tack. “Let’s talk about your recent encounter with Mr. Federov. That was a significant event, I think we can both agree – how are you processing it?”

I stiffen, the memory hitting me like a punch to the gut.

How am I processing it?

Well, I’m currently in a hospital for the sort of radiation sickness that generally is reserved for people caught in nuclear blasts. My muscles don’t work anymore, I have burns on the inside of my body but not the outside, I lost ten pounds of skin and another, like, fifteen pounds of muscle and fat, and I’m bald. When I go to sleep, sometimes I just see white light and I wake up with pins and needles everywhere, totally stuck, locked in. And all I can think about is how sorry I feel for this sad sack who’s going to end up in jail forever because of me. Because I made him turn himself in.

That’s what I want to say. Instead, it comes out like this;

“Well, it’s fine. It’s what I do. Nobody else could’ve done it.”

Great answer, Sam.

“And do you often find yourself in these kinds of situations? Feeling like you have to be the one to step in?”

“All the time,” I admit. “It’s like, if I don’t do it, who will? I can’t just stand by and watch bad things happen.”

Dr. Desai nods, understanding. “That’s a lot of responsibility to take on. It’s commendable, but it can also be overwhelming. Do you ever feel like it’s too much?”

I think about it for a moment. “Sometimes, yeah. But I can’t just stop. I can’t be… useless.”

He frowns slightly at that. “Feeling like you only matter when you’re in danger, that’s a concerning mindset. It can lead to taking unnecessary risks. Have you ever thought about why you feel this way?”

I shake my head, not wanting to go down that road. “Not really. I just… do what I have to do.”

Dr. Desai keeps poking, his questions probing gently at the edges of my life, peeling back all the plastic wrap. It’s like he’s trying to peek behind the curtain without pulling it back too far, without alerting security. But I can’t help being alert. I still feel like this is all a dream, and in a second I’m going to wake up in an abandoned subway station, burning to death while my skin is all sloughing off. Or that some gangster is going to bust the door down and shoot Dr. Desai, and then me.

But I don’t say that either. I just listen.

“So, Sam, tell me about your family. How do they fit into your life as Bloodhound?” Dr. Desai asks, his pen poised above his notepad.

I shift uncomfortably. “Well, they don’t really… fit. I mean, I had to get them to leave Philly because things got too dangerous. It’s my fault they’re in danger, so I had to fix it. I mean, they’re fine. Food, shelter, love, attention. Clothes. My Dad is kind of stern. My Mom really cares about my grades. You know how it is, I’m a fourteen year old.”

I stop, and then correct myself. “Fourteen and three quarters.”

Dr. Desai nods, his expression thoughtful. “You said you had to get them to leave Philly, for their own safety. That sounds like a lot of pressure for someone your age. How does that make you feel, having to take on such responsibility?”

I shrug, trying to seem nonchalant. “It’s just what I have to do. I mean, I can regenerate, they can’t. It’s better this way.”

“But do you ever feel overwhelmed by it?” he probes.

“Sometimes,” I admit. “But I can handle it. I have to.”

Dr. Desai changes the subject slightly. “You mentioned feeling like you’re watching the world from behind glass. Can you tell me more about that?”

I think for a moment. “It’s like, sometimes I’m not really there. I’m just going through the motions, but I don’t feel… connected. Everything feels dull unless I’m in danger. Like, my physical senses. My skin doesn’t feel as… feel-y. Everything tastes kind of bland. And, like, I can force it away if I do something stupid, but normally this lasts for a couple of weeks and then something bad will happen and I feel great for another couple of weeks.”

“That’s quite significant,” he says, writing something down. “Have you been having any nightmares or flashbacks, particularly about your experiences as Bloodhound?”

I hesitate, then nod. “Yeah, I guess. I keep seeing Liberty Belle. And this one guy who got… his head… Psshshhtt, you know? Right in front of me. Wasn’t fun.”

Dr. Desai’s expression softens. “That’s a traumatic experience, Sam. It’s natural to be affected by it.”

“And how about your relationships with friends? How do they fit into your life?” he asks.

I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Barely. My friends are my superhero buddies. My friend friends all went to different high schools, and, like… you know… It’s different when it’s your colleagues. And I have a girlfriend but I always feel like a letdown to her. Actually, I decided I don’t want to talk about her. Sorry. But yeah, like I said before. Panes of glass.”

Dr. Desai nods again, making another note. “It’s common to feel isolated when you’re dealing with so much on your own. You’ve taken on a heavy burden, Sam. It’s okay to feel overwhelmed by it.”

I don’t respond, just pick at a loose thread on the arm of the chair. We’re getting into the stuff I don’t like to think about. We talk more about my nightmares, about the constant feeling of being on edge. I tell him about the panic that grips me sometimes when I’m just sitting in class or walking down the street. How I’m always scanning for danger, even when there’s none.

Dr. Desai’s voice breaks through my thoughts. “Sam, it’s important to recognize that what you’re experiencing – the depersonalization, the nightmares, the need to constantly be in danger – these are signs of trauma. It’s important to address them, to talk about them.”

I look up, meeting his eyes directly for what feels like the first time since we started. “I know, but it’s hard. I don’t want to seem weak. I’m Bloodhound. I can’t be weak.”

As our session nears its end, the room feels less clinical, a little softer at the edges. Less adversarial, but at the same time, a little less interested. Dr. Desai sets his notepad aside, his gaze meeting mine. “Sam, you’ve been through a lot, more than most people your age, or any age for that matter.”

I fidget, uncomfortable under his steady gaze. “So, what do you think is wrong with me? Am I… broken?”

Dr. Desai shakes his head. “Not broken, Sam. You’re coping with extraordinary circumstances. But based on what you’ve shared, I see signs of PTSD – Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. The nightmares, the hyper-vigilance, the sense of detachment, these are all common symptoms.”

My heart races. PTSD. It sounds so serious, so… damaged. That’s what soldiers have, not fourteen year old girls from Mayfair. “Is that all?”

He leans forward, “There might be more. Your need to constantly be in danger, the highs and lows you describe, they could be indicative of bipolar disorder. And if I didn’t already know you had it, I would likely be suggesting you look into an ADHD diagnosis. It may be worth considering an Autism Spectrum Disorder assessment, as well – I think it’s quite possible that some of the behaviors you describe are sensory-seeking behaviors designed to provide you adequate stimulation. These are just possibilities, of course. We’ll need to explore more, talk more.”

I swallow hard, trying to process his words. “You think I’m like, what, a walking bundle of disorders?”

“No, Sam,” he says gently. “I see a resilient, strong young woman who’s dealing with challenges most people can’t even imagine. But understanding these aspects of yourself can help us find the best ways to support you.”

I look back at his feet.

“So, what now?” I ask, feeling a mix of fear and relief. Relief at having a name for what I’m feeling, fear of what it means.

“Now, we keep talking. We explore these possibilities more deeply. And with your permission, I’d like to discuss these potential diagnoses with your care team and your parents. They’re part of your support system.”

I hesitate, the thought of my parents knowing all this making me uneasy. But then I nod. “Okay. Yeah, talk to them. They should know.”

Dr. Desai smiles, a reassuring, warm smile. “You’re taking a big step today, Sam. It’s going to be a journey, but you’re not on it alone. We can start trialing some medication soon and see if that can help even out some of the peaks and valleys in your symptoms.”

I can’t help but roll my eyes. “Oh boy. More pills.”

---

It’s late at night in my hospital room, the kind of night where everything feels still, like the world’s holding its breath. I’m sitting up in bed, surrounded by piles of half-finished schoolwork. It’s a mess, papers scattered everywhere, but I can’t bring myself to care too much about it right now. Instead, my attention is on the TV, where they’re talking about him – Illya – again. The news just can’t get enough of him since he turned himself in.

I watch as the talking heads dissect every angle of his surrender and ongoing trial. They’ve got theories, speculations, but none of them know the real story. To them, it’s just this big, bad villain who inexplicably gave up one day. I want to laugh at the absurdity of it all, but it just feels hollow. I stopped the man who killed my mentor and my mentor’s mentor – my grandmentor? But it’s not like I can go around bragging about it. And did I really avenge them if he’s still walking around, alive?

I think about that last part a lot. I don’t like it.

But, like, I mean, it’s weird, right? I’m sitting here, the girl who actually faced him, talked him down, but to everyone else, I might as well not exist in that story. It’s like I’m watching a movie about my own life, except I’ve been cut out of the script. Kinda ironic, I guess. Superhero works in the shadows, and the shadows swallow up her part. All I see is the NSRA committing autofellatio about their ‘investigation’ – that means sucking their own dick, Jordan taught me that one – and it just makes me kind of… I don’t know. It’s not even anger. It’s something entirely different. An emotion I don’t really know the name of yet.

The anchor moves on to the public’s reaction – some people are relieved, some are angry he didn’t face a more dramatic takedown. And then there are those who think he got off too easy. The piranhas braying for his blood. I take a breath and change the channel. Food Network.

I pick up a textbook, trying to focus on something else, but the words just blur together. It’s like my brain’s decided to go on strike. I toss it aside, letting out a sigh. School’s important, I know that, but right now, it feels like trying to keep a sandcastle together during high tide. I change the channel back.

I glance back at the TV, where they’re now showing clips of people laying flowers at a memorial for Chernobyl’s victims. I could’ve been one of those. And I can’t help but think about what he said – about how many people he saved. Was it worth the superheroes he killed? Just thinking about all the chains of cause and effect for too long makes me start to get dizzy.

A nurse pops her head in, asking if I need anything. I force a smile and tell her I’m fine, just tired. She doesn’t look entirely convinced, but she leaves me be. I’m getting good at putting on that brave face, the one that says ‘I’m okay’. I feel a little nauseous, and I turn off the TV, the room falling into darkness. The only light now is the faint glow of the moon streaming through the window. It’s peaceful, in a way.

I lie back, staring at the ceiling, letting the silence wrap around me like a blanket.

---

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