The nurse goes to the foot of the bed, where she hangs something—my chart?—which sways back and forth a couple of times, singing on a nail. Then she leans over to straighten the blanket, while muttering to herself, “Poor girl. Not even Prince Charming can save her.”
At this point, I turn my anger against myself. So far, I’ve neglected to ask the right questions. I must start making a list. Was there some near-fatal accident? Is that what landed me here? When? Where? How? Was it my fault?
And just like that, my heart skips a beat, not because of the fluorescent fixtures buzzing again before they fall into silence, and not even because of counting the seconds until the backup generators kick in, until power is here, uninterrupted. No, this time I grow worried because of something else entirely.
I wonder: if there was an accident, was I the only one hurt? And what happened to the one person I care about, the one I love more than anyone else in the whole world? If only I could remember his name—oh! Oh, I know!
Where is he? Why isn’t he here? He owes me a kiss!
(Volume I of Ash Suspense Thrillers with a Dash of Romance)