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Agitated?

An understatement. I’m fucking trapped. Something is wrong and my brain is moving faster than my body can follow.

Another voice overlaps. Calmer. Familiar? Maybe not.

“Stevie. Can you hear me?”

I try to turn my head toward the voice. Nothing.

“Stevie, you’re in the hospital.”

Hospital.

What?

Hospital.

Why? Why am I here?

My mind reaches again, blindly, mentally, for something solid. A memory. A moment. Anything.

It hits me all at once. The sound. Metal on metal. Tires screeching. The crunch of impact. A scream—no, terrorized screams. Children. Crying. Then silence.

Then nothing.

I freeze. My body goes cold beneath whatever blankets are tucked around me.

Children.

There were children.

Mychildren.

I don’t know how I know, I just know. Like a string yanked from my soul. Recognition buried under pain and fog.

“Your vitals are stabilizing,” the voice says. “We’re going to keep monitoring you.”

A hand touches my arm. Not comforting. Clinical. Measuring. I don’t know who this is. I don’t care.

I try to speak. Force something out of my throat. “My…” I rasp. “My…kids.”

“You’ve been through a severe trauma, Ms. Hayes,” the voice says slowly, carefully. “You’re safe. We’ll talk soon.”

Safe.

The word breaks me open. Because I know something isn’t right.

I blink again, harder now, like my life depends on it. The ceiling finally sharpens into focus. Too white. Too clean. A long, narrow light above me casts sharp shadows on the corners ofthe room. A hospital monitor sits at my left, numbers glowing. Another machine I don’t recognize stands guard beside it, tubes leading into my arm and chest.

I try to sit up. My muscles won’t respond.

Tears burn, pooling without falling. My throat swells with the effort to ask again.

“Kids…” I croak.

“We’re going to have your family come in,” the nurse—maybe a nurse—speaks. “You’re not alone.”

Not alone?