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?