The beeping wakes me first. Rhythmic. Insistent.
The kind of sound that burrows into your skull and sets up permanent residence. I try to open my eyes, but my lids feel like they’ve been glued shut. When I finally pry them apart, fluorescent lights sear my retinas.
Where am I? The answer comes in fragments: white ceiling tiles, that antiseptic smell that coats the back of your throat, the tight pull of something taped to my hand. IV line.
Hospital. My throat burns. Raw.
Wrong. I try to swallow, but it feels like I’ve swallowed broken glass. I reach up with a trembling hand and touch my neck, feeling the tenderness there.
They had a tube down my throat. How long was I out? I fumble for my phone on the bedside table.
My fingers feel thick, clumsy, refusing to grip the smooth metal. It takes three tries before I can lift it. The screen lights up.
3:47 a.m. Monday. Monday.
I collapsed on Thursday. Four days ago. Four days I’ve been here, and the notification count on my phone sits at a grand total of three.
Three. My parents should have called a hundred times by now. Kinsley would have blown up my phone with dramatic voice messages about how worried she was, how I scared everyone.
That’s how it always goes when I’m unavailable for more than a few hours: they panic, they demand, they need. But my screen shows nothing. No missed calls.
No frantic texts asking where I am or if I’m okay. I tap the notification icon, and my stomach drops through the hospital bed. Bank of America.
$12,400 charge at Cabo San Lucas Resort. Posted two days ago. My vision blurs, and I have to blink hard to clear the fog.
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