I wake to the sound of wheels squeaking against tile. A tray rattles, metal instruments clinking together, and then a sharp voice says, "Vitals first."
It's barely dawn. Pale light leaks through the blinds, turning the room gray-blue. My mom stirs in her chair, blinking awake, while Dad mumbles something and pulls a blanket higher.
The doctors don't care that I'm still half-asleep. They surround me like hawks, clipping cold wires to my chest, pricking my finger, sliding a thermometer beneath my tongue before I can even form words.
It's suffocating.
"Look at me," one of them orders, snapping a penlight in my eyes.
I flinch. The brightness sears, and I blink furiously. My head throbs, but the doctor doesn't wait, doesn't apologize. He scribbles on a tablet, already onto the next test.
Another one taps a reflex hammer against my knees. My leg jerks, but not enough for his liking. "Again," he mutters, more to himself than to me.
I feel less like a person and more like a specimen. A project.
My chest tightens. I'm barely awake, barely breathing in this new reality, and they're already dissecting me.
"Enough," Mom snaps suddenly, her voice cutting through the noise. "She just woke up. She's exhausted."
The doctors exchange looks, silent, before one finally says, "We'll need another scan this afternoon." Then they leave, their footsteps echoing down the hall.
I let out a shaky breath. "What… was that?"
Mom smooths a hand over my blanket. "Routine," she insists, though her voice wavers.
Routine. That's what she calls it. But routine doesn't usually feel like being hunted.
---
Later, they wheel me down sterile halls to a massive machine. The walls are blinding white, the air cold enough to raise goosebumps. They strap me down, like I might run away if I could, and slide me into a tunnel that hums and clicks.
"Stay still," a voice orders from a speaker above my head.
The machine roars to life. A deep vibration rattles through me, down to my bones.
I close my eyes, trying to block it out, but the moment I do, it starts again…
The flicker.
Information floods me, unbidden.
Magnetic resonance imaging machine, 3.0 Tesla. Electromagnetic field rotation: stable. Scan time: thirty-seven minutes, twelve seconds.
I don't know how I know it. The facts appear like someone's whispering them in my ear, clear as day.
My breath catches. My heart spikes.
Not again.
"Stay calm," the voice above says, noticing my panic. "Almost done."
But I can't stay calm. Because no one told me those numbers. No one fed me those details. They just… appeared.
---
When it's over, they roll me back to my room. I'm shaking so badly I can't hold the cup of water Mom presses into my hands.
She frowns. "Sweetheart, what's wrong?"
I want to tell her. I want to blurt it all out, the numbers, the calculations, the certainty that something inside me has shifted. But the words stick in my throat. Something in me whispers don't.
Instead, I shake my head weakly. "Just… tired."
Mom's eyes linger on me, searching. But she lets it go.
Dad isn't so easily convinced. When Mom steps out to speak with a nurse, he sits forward, his elbows on his knees. "You scared me," he admits, his voice low. "I didn't think you'd ever open your eyes again."
I swallow hard. "Dad… what aren't you telling me?"
His jaw clenches. For a moment, I think he'll say it. The truth. Whatever shadow lies thick between their words.
But then the door opens.
Dr. Renley steps in.
Tall. Immaculate. His dark eyes pin me in place like an insect under glass.
"You're adapting quickly," he says, as if it's a compliment. He doesn't bother with a greeting. He walks to the monitor by my bed, studies the screen, then me. "Faster than expected."
"What does that mean?" My voice is sharper than I intend.
He smiles. Too smooth. Too rehearsed. "It means you're lucky."
My skin prickles. "Lucky," I repeat flatly.
"Yes. Most patients never recover from long-term unconsciousness." He steps closer, invading my space. His cologne is faint, sterile, almost metallic. "But you… you're extraordinary."
The way he says it makes my stomach twist. Like I'm not a girl who's just lost thirteen years of her life… like I'm an achievement.
I lean back against the pillows. "I don't feel extraordinary."
His smile doesn't waver. "You will."
Something in his tone makes the air colder.
Then he turns to my parents, lowering his voice like I can't hear. "I'd like to keep her under observation for at least three more days."
Mom nods too quickly for my taste. "Of course doctor, whatever she needs."
Dad doesn't speak. His hands fist against his knees.
Dr. Renley glances back at me, his eyes gleaming with something I can't name. "Rest well, Lena. The hard part is over."
But as he leaves, the hair rises on the back of my neck.
Because I don't think the hard part has even started.
---
That night, I don't sleep.
Everytime I close my eyes, I see flashes… numbers scrolling, static buzzing, faces I don't know. The red-haired girl with braces and the man in a cowboy hat in a sterile white room.
I jolt awake, gasping.
The room is dark, silent except for the steady rhythm of machines. Mom's soft breathing from the chair. Dad's snore from the couch.
My pulse is still racing. I press a trembling hand to my chest, trying to slow it.
That's when I notice the monitor beside me.
It isn't just beeping. It's flashing.
Words scroll across the screen, mixed in with my vitals. Words that shouldn't be there.
HELLO, LENA.
I freeze. My breath catches in my throat.
The letters blink, then vanish as quickly as they appeared, leaving only my heart rate and oxygen levels as if nothing had changed at all.
I whip my head toward my parents, but they're still asleep.
I'm alone.
Except… I'm not.
The machine's soft beeping fills the silence, steady and calm, while my own pulse slams in my ears.
I don't move. I don't breathe.
Because I know someone… or something… just spoke to me.