The number did not make sense, but before I could calculate the missing hours, the heavy wooden door clicked open.
Carla Montgomery, the nurse, stepped into the room with a quiet, measured cadence that seemed to lower the tension in the air.
She adjusted her silver braids, tucking a loose strand behind her ear as she looked at my monitor.
“Well, look who decided to join us,” Carla said, her voice warm and steady. “We were beginning to think you liked the quiet in here.”
She checked the clear plastic line of my IV drip, her fingers moving with the easy confidence of someone who had spent decades in the ICU.
“What happened to me?” I asked, looking at the clear fluids dripping into my arm.
“Your lungs were almost entirely full, Mallory,” Carla said, checking the digital display on the wall. “Between the severe infection and the sheer physical exhaustion, your body simply ran out of fuel.”
She leaned over and gently tapped my shoulder, her eyes kind but serious.
