Hope spent three days in bed recovering from the magical seizure and I spent three days watching her sleep while trying not to catastrophize about the echo countdown that was still ticking whether we acknowledged it or not.
Six weeks. Minus the three days she'd been unconscious. So five weeks and four days until reality tried to recreate the prison break with us at ground zero.
No pressure.
"Mama you're doing the thing again." Hope's voice was hoarse from disuse. "Where you count things that make you scared."
Counting things that make me scared. Right. Our two-year-old could identify my anxiety coping mechanisms through the maternal bond.
"Just thinking." My deflection was weak. "How are you feeling?"
"Tired." Her honest answer. "And my magic feels—weird. Like it's there but far away. Like when you can't quite remember a word."
Like she can't quite remember a word. Right. Magical exhaustion making her own power feel distant.
