A hospital is an eerie place in the middle of the night. I sample the air, but nothing supernatural flavors it. All that lingers on my tongue tastes antiseptic and medicinal. I want to ask for another piece of pumpkin pie, but except for the occasional shuffle of soft-soled shoes, the hallway is silent. I suspect the cafeteria is closed for the night.
I stare up at the ceiling, my eyes wide open, growing unease gripping my stomach. My limbs ache; I’m starting to feel the aftereffects of the attack. I reach for the call button, but I don’t know what the night-shift nurse could do except hand me some Tylenol. Still, I clutch the cord. When a voice sounds near the end of my bed, I yank it closer.
“Good evening, Katy.”
My heart pounds, feels as though it might shoot out of my chest. It’s a
