Page 36 of Fixation
Opening my eyes—I’ll have to start there.
How am I supposed to do that? My lids are heavier than I thought. The fever weighs them down.
It hasn’t gone down completely, apparently. I feel better, though. Much better. I mean, hey, I’m not coughing.
My throat is sore, yet my lungs don’t burn.
Yes, I’ve definitely been admitted to the hospital. I’ve been treated here, have had time to rest. I’m on the path to healing.
Whoever’s on shift deserves a raise. Mainly, the seriously handsome, seriously competent doctor who held me up seconds before I slipped into unconsciousness.
A surgeon, he said he was.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
His dark, fathomless eyes. I remember those.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
His voice. The richness of it. How rugged he sounded.
“I’ve got you, Harper.”
At that, I gulp. My heart stills.
My name.
Oh.
Oh.
Oh, shit.
He knew my name. The Uber driver didn’t give him that information. I remember that part clearly.
“I’ve got you, Harper.”
My body freezes.
A stranger knew my name.
Fighting the heaviness on my eyelids, I force my eyes to open.
Even with the lights dimmed, it takes a few seconds for the world to become sharper.
The first thing I look at is my body, covered by a pale blue wool blanket. That’s okay. That’s normal.
Right?
Right.
Next is the IV pole by my bed. A metal treatment cart with drawers and all is stationed at its side.
None of it is suspicious.
What raises alarm bells are the exposed brick walls. The fact that no sun or starlight filters in.
This place doesn’t seem to be a hospital room.
