“What’s he talking about?” someone whispers.
“I think we should let him rest.”
Yes. Rest.
So tired.
Can’t move anymore. Can’t form any more words. I feel like I’m sinking into the mattress.
The voices dissolve, slowly expanding into a mass of unbroken sound that builds into a roaring, painful assault on my ears and then— Gone.
Quiet.
Darkness.
Nine
How long has it been?
The air feels cooler, heavier. I try to swallow and, this time, it doesn’t hurt. I manage to peek through two slits—remembering something about spiders—and discover that I’m all alone.
I open my eyes a bit more.
I thought I’d wake up in a medical tent or something, but I’m surprised—and relieved, I think—to find that I’m in my own room. All is still. Hushed. Except for one thing: when I listen closely, I can make out the distant, unexpected sound of crickets. I don’t think I’ve heard a cricket in a decade.
Weird.
Anyway, I feel a thousand times better now than I did . . . was it yesterday? I don’t know. However long it’s been, I can honestly say I’m feeling better now, more like myself. And I know that to be true because I’m suddenly starving. I can’t believe I didn’t eat that cake when I had the chance. I must’ve been out of my mind.
I push myself up, onto my elbows.
It’s more than a little disorienting to wake up where you didn’t fall asleep, but after a few minutes, the room begins to feel familiar. Most of my curtains were pulled closed, but moonlight spills through an inch of uncovered window, casting silvers and shadows across the room. I didn’t spend enough time in this tent before things went to hell for me, so the interior is still bare and generic. It doesn’t help, of course, that I have none of my things. Everything feels cold. Foreign. All of my belongings are borrowed, even my toothbrush. But when I look out around the room, at the dead monitor stationed near my bed, at the empty IV bag hanging nearby, and at the fresh bandage taped across the new bruise on my forearm, I realize someone must’ve decided I was okay. That I was going to be okay.
Relief floods through me.
But what do I do about food?
Depending on what time it is, it might be too late to eat; I doubt the dining tent is open at all hours of the night. But right away, my stomach rebels against the thought. It doesn’t growl, though, it just hurts. The feeling is familiar, easy to recognize. The sharp, breathtaking pangs of hunger are always the same.
I’ve known them nearly all my life.
The pain returns again, suddenly, with an insistence I can’t ignore, and I realize I have no choice but to scavenge for something. Anything. Even a piece of dry bread. I don’t remember the last time I ate a proper meal, now that I think of it. It might’ve been on the plane, right before we crashed. I wanted to eat dinner that first night, when we arrived at the Sanctuary, but my nerves were so shot that my stomach basically shriveled up and died. I guess I’ve been starving ever since.
I’m going to fix that.
I push myself all the way up. I need to recalibrate. I’ve been letting myself lose perspective lately, and I can’t afford to do that. There’s too much to do. There are too many people depending on me.
James needs me to be better than this.
Besides, I have so much to be grateful for. I know I do. Sometimes I just need to be reminded. So I take a deep, steadying breath in this dark, quiet room and force myself to focus. To remember.
To say, out loud: I’m grateful.
For the clothes on my back and the safety of this room. For my friends, my makeshift family, and for what remains of my health and sanity.
I drop my head in my hands and say it. Plant my feet on the floor and say it. And when I’ve finally managed to pull myself up, breathing hard, breaking a sweat, I brace my hands against the wall and whisper: “I’m grateful.”
I’m going to find James. I’m going to find him and Adam and everyone else. I’m going to make this right. I have to, even if I have to die trying.
I lift my head and step away from the wall, carefully testing my weight on the cold floor. When I realize I feel strong enough to stand on my own, I breathe a sigh of relief. First things first: I need to take a shower.
I grab the hem of my shirt and pull it up, over my head, but just as the collar catches around my face, temporarily blinding me—my arm connects with something.
Someone.
A short, startled gasp is my only confirmation that there’s an intruder in my room.