I opened my eyes to a white ceiling and the sound of a machine beeping beside me.
The light was too bright. It pressed against my eyes like a physical weight, and I had to blink several times before the world stopped swimming. White walls. White sheets. The sharp, sterile smell of antiseptic
I was becoming too familiar with this place.
I didn't need to ask. I knew I was in a hospital. The beeping machine, the thin blanket, the way my arm felt heavy where an IV was taped to my skin—I had woken up like this enough times to recognize it without looking.
My head still ached. Not the sharp, blinding pain from before, but a dull, throbbing presence that sat behind my eyes like a bruise that had been pressed too many times. Every time I tried to remember what had happened, the ache pulsed a little harder, a warning, and I learned quickly to stop trying.
"Holland?"
