Beeps are the first thing that Avery hears when she comes to. Steady. In tune with the beat of her heart, oddly enough. Each pulse of noise and blood warps her hearing, as if her head were spinning between a pair of balloons. Round and round.

Now, pain. Even lying still, her shoulder screams for relief. Sight. Formless crimson light bursts in the corner of her eyes — figments of pain itself. She grows conscious of every sense in sequence: the taste of unbrushed teeth; the smell of clinical, sterile air; and the woven feel of thermal blankets.

All senses accounted for and all just a little bit shitty. A lotta bit, really. She cracks her eyelids, letting light as clinical as the air seep in. It's blinding at first. Her eyelids flutter with waves of discomfort, but she catches glimpses.

IV drip, curtain, hospital bed. Light-driven discomfort recedes: slowly; too slowly. Though, as it does, the pain in her shoulder grows more intense. A groan escapes her throat. She grits her teeth and forces her still struggling eyes to stay open.

To Avery's left, a woman looms. Waves of auburn hair cascade over her shoulders; a light blotted out by her head rims the edges of her silhouette in a halo. It's as if Avery were witness to the stories of angels made real. This woman isn't an angel, of course. She's a doctor.

She removes a glove from one of her hands. "Good morning! Well, almost. We've still got an hour or so until the day walkers are out and about. I'm your doctor: Dr. Helen; feel free to just call me Helen. How are you feeling, Avery?"

Avery tries to say something, but words refuse to come. In their place: noises with the vague shape of words. "I'ehm— I'ehm heling bhed. Iht erts."

"Take a minute, dear. Don't rush. Your anesthesia is still wearing off." Helen reaches her ungloved hand toward Avery's arm, lying limp on the bed. "If I may, can I take your arm here? I'll be able to dull the pain you're feeling."

"Ohhey."

Helen grasps Avery's forearm. The next moment, ice floods her veins and courses further with each beat of her heart. Everywhere it flows it chills her body to the point of numbness. But, not a bad numbness. A comfortable one.

Lying there, she exhales. Fog wisps from her lips as if she were a dragon letting loose her freezing breath.

Helen snaps her glove back on. "Does that feel better?"

Breathing in, the air comes cold. Freezing. Yet, no pain. For the first time in Avery's life, she feels a complete lack of discomfort. No aches, no twangs, nothing. Even her mind is quiet: barren of obsessive, buzzing thoughts.

She stares at Helen, mind blank. Not from some clouding of her mind. No: this is pure wonder. "Wha— what? What did you do?" She says.

Yanking a clipboard and pen off a nearby tray, Helen starts scribbling something out. "Just a little pain management. More effective than morphine and keeps you present. Doesn't last as long, though. There's some indications that it hastens the natural healing process: kind of hard to get the sample size I need for a conclusion like that. There's only one of me, after all."

Avery loses herself amid the explanation. This... is this how brains are supposed to work? She tries to raise herself up, but everything is numb. Only her mind and her mouth work by her command. "How long?" She asks.

Helen doesn't look up from her clipboard. "Hmm?"

"How long will this last?"

"Oh, about an hour. Don't worry. With luck, you'll have your prescribed painkillers in hand before it wears off."

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

"We can't just do this again?"

"Unfortunately not, no. Anymore without a weeklong break and the risks of complication rise dramatically. Blood clots, nerve damage, probably other things. Not to scare you, though: once is perfectly safe. I've done all the tests and submitted the appropriate paperwork to clear it for use with patients."

Avery's heart falls. Only an hour then. She bites back her anger, letting it simmer inside — not anger at the doctor, but at herself. Damn it, the one time everything feels okay and I'm stuck in a bed. Stuck in a hospital away from everyone.

Helen dots off whatever she was writing with a tap of her pen. "Want the run down?"

"Of what?"

"Your injuries, what we did, aftercare."

Barraged by her returning senses and Helen's ability to wipe away her obsessions, the happenings at the aquarium lie forgotten. Until now. Her mind recoils at the rush of memories: late night worries about fish, a teleporting man, her shoulder after the chase. That priest bubbles through her thoughts, too. Thea.

Did she get away?

"Well?" Helen says.

Thoughts jumble and Avery blinks them away. They refuse to stick — to linger as they usually might. "Sorry; yes. Am I okay?" She says.

"Sure, I can lead with that. Good news: you're fine! I expect you'll make a full recovery given a few months of taking it easy. No strenuous exercise, no lifting things heavier than twenty pounds, and keep that sling on for three months."

Sling?

Avery looks down. One arm — the one the doctor's grabbed — is free, limp at her side. The other, though, is cradled to her ribcage by a sling of shiny, bright blue fabric. A strap loops over the opposite shoulder and down; she can feel another drawn tight across her lower back.

Oh.

Helen continues. "You had two cracked ribs and a dislocated shoulder with some severe internal bleeding near the joint. It was interesting, actually. Normally there isn't arterial damage from a simple anterior dislocation, but your subclavian artery must have gotten pinched somehow. Anyway: when you arrived — say, five hours ago — we took your vitals, then prepped you for surgery. We had you in and out of the operating room in an hour. Assuming you follow your aftercare instructions, they should both be good! Any questions?"

For all the biological knowledge rattling inside Avery's head, precious little helps her parse what qualifies her dislocation as anterior or where a subclavian artery is. Near her shoulder, of course, but where at inside there? She probably wouldn't be able to tell me right now

Would she?

Deciding that the answer is 'probably not', Avery tries to wiggle the fingers that dangle out the front of her sling. "No. No questions."

Helen tucks her clipboard under her armpit. "Wonderful! You should be feeling more control over your body by now. Stop by reception, fill out a little paperwork, then you're free to go. I've heard your parents are waiting down in the lobby. Be sure you have them stop by a pharmacy to pick up your prescriptions. You'll have two: an antibiotic and a painkiller. The pharmacists will—"

I'm free to go?

Free from the constant, obsessive companion and her chest bursting with motivation to not end up liked that priest, she scrambles to get out of bed. I've got an hour to spend and my parents are here. Now's my best chance.

----------------------------------------

"Avery!" Mom's voice echoes around the expansive lobby, beating back a steady, deafening tick from overhead. She shoots up from a hardbacked chair and runs. "You're okay!"

Shock grasps Avery's breath. Having burst through a pair of doors into the lobby moments prior, her stride breaks. The sight of Mom like this: usually straight hair a nest of frizz, eyes puffy and red, wearing pajamas. It's a simple, matching set of navy bottoms and a top, but still: weird. Nostalgic in a way.

How long has it been since I've gotten up early enough to see her in pajamas?

Mom barrels into her, slinging arms around whatever she can hug. And she hugs.

Pains jolts Avery's shoulder. Struggling to speak, she squeaks words past frizz and a collapsing larynx. "M-Mom. Unsqueeze me. S-shoulder."

Mom cradles Avery's face between two hands. "I'm so sorry. I wasn't thinking, sorry dear. Are you okay? What'd the doctor say? The receptionists gave us some details, but—"

Without thought, Avery finds her unbound hand squeezing one of mom's. "That can wait. There's something I have to tell you both. Dad's here too, right?"

"Yes, yes he is, but—"

There. Back where Mom jumped out of her seat, Dad shambles in their direction, massaging his chest directly in front of his heart. Avery starts off and drags Mom one step toward Dad.

If you tell him, he'll have another heart attack. It'd be as good as killing him yourself. Stop: apologize to them for even thinking to do this.

It's a sneak attack, advantage and all. Tendrils latch onto her limbs; her lungs. They squeeze out air. They refuse to let her move, leaving her like a suffocating statue — a carefully carved rock with no will or way to breathe, but still a desperate need. It— it hasn't even been close to an hour. What's happening?

Sorry, but you were never free. Just distracted.