Abigail stirred slowly as if she was pulled out of a heavy fog that clung to her bones. Her eyelids fluttered open and the ceiling above her swam in and out of focus. Everything ached. Her body felt hollowed out, drained, as though every ounce of strength had been poured from her.
Soft sounds reached her ears. Muted footsteps, the rustle of fabric, the faint clink of instruments being set aside. The air smelled sharp, clean, and too sterile. When her vision cleared, she realized she wasn’t alone. A nurse at the far end of the room was tidying up new sheets. Another was wiping down a tray, moving briskly but with precision. By the door, a third staff member shifted carefully, carrying something small and swaddled in a blanket.
Abigail’s chest squeezed so suddenly she could barely breathe.
