BRYCE
I woke up drowning in my own skin.
The sheets clung to me, soaked through. My pillow was damp. Everything hurt—my joints, my muscles, even my hair hurt. I tried to roll over and my body screamed in protest, and for one awful second I just laid there and let it, I was too exhausted to fight back.
6:14 AM.
I blinked at my phone, trying to make sense of the numbers. Why was I awake? Why did everything feel like it was melting?
Then the fever spiked higher and I understood.
Oh god. No.
Heat.
No no no no—
I wasn't due for three weeks. I checked my calendar yesterday, set my reminders and planned to stock up on water, easy food and lock myself in here when the time came. I'd been careful. I'm always careful. That's the only thing I've ever been good at — being careful, staying ahead of it, keeping this one humiliating part of myself contained where no one could see it but my body had other ideas.
