I slowly blinked my eyes open, squinting against the light streaming through the windows.
A gentle scratching sound caught my attention. Turning my head, I spotted Matilda sitting in a chair next to the bed, scribbling something on a clipboard. She wore her usual pristine white coat, her graying brown hair pulled back in a tight bun.
“Matilda?” My voice came out raspy. My throat felt raw—probably from all the screaming I’d done last night. Heat rushed to my cheeks at the memory.
She looked up, her experienced eyes quickly assessing me. “Good afternoon, Hazel. How are you feeling?”
Afternoon? I glanced toward the windows again, noticing the angle of the sunlight. I must have slept for hours.
“I’m okay,” I answered, taking mental inventory of my body. “A little sore. Tired.”
