Page 98 of Knotting the Firefighters
His Wendolyn.
Forever.
DRIFTING BETWEEN A NEW REALITY
~WENDOLYN~
Consciousness arrives in fragments—not the sharp clarity of normal waking, but sluggish awareness that feels like swimming through honey, each thought requiring monumental effort to complete.
Where—?
The question dies incomplete, my brain too foggy to finish forming it. Everything feels distant, muffled, like experiencing reality throughathick blanket that dampens sensation and sound.
The recognition filters through eventually. I'm still at the rental cottage—can identify the familiar ceiling, the particular way afternoon light slants through windows, the subtle smell of lavender sachets I'd hung in the closet months ago.
Afternoon?
What time is it?
How long have I been asleep?
My body aches with intensity that suggests significant physical exertion—muscles protesting movement, joints feeling stiff, the particular soreness that speaks to activities I'd rather not examine too closely while my brain is operating at reduced capacity.
Warm.
Why am I so warm?
The temperature feels elevated beyond comfortable, not quite feverish but approaching that territory. Sweat dampens my hairline, makes my skin feel sticky despite?—
Wait.
I'm clean.
The realization penetrates slowly. I'm wearing pajamas—soft cotton that definitely wasn't what I had on last time I was conscious. The sheets beneath me are fresh, carrying the crisp scent of recent laundering rather than the evidence of morning activities.
Someone cleaned me.
Changed me.
Put me to bed like an invalid requiring care.
The thought should probably bother me—loss of agency, vulnerability while unconscious, the implications of someone handling my body without my awareness. But I can't muster the energy for concern;exhaustion overrides any potential alarm.
So tired.
Impossibly, overwhelmingly tired.
My eyelids drift closed despite minimal time awake, body demanding return to unconsciousness with insistence that feels biological rather than simply physical fatigue.
Should probably stay awake.
Figure out what's happening.
Understand why I feel like I've been hit by a truck.
But the pull toward sleep is irresistible, dragging me back under before I can mount effective resistance. Thoughts fragment further, consciousness dissolving into disconnected impressions and half-formed memories.
Calder.
