A bitter, technicolor yawn spilled from her lips. Ilana was anesthetized and laid on an ice-cold gurney, rushed into surgery where they seamed together her flesh.
She was running a fever, sweating out the blue-green sea.
Slipping in and out of consciousness.
Whenever she opened her eyes, her vision was distorted, boiled down to a dreamlike pointillism and violently glittering. Like a continuation of night sky, the figures around her moved in and out of this sea of star-milk. Ilana winced as something pricked into her arm, darkening the constellations into dim, slow swirls.
“Isa,” she croaked. “Where is Isa?”
The nurse shook her head, holding a gloved finger to her lips.
Ilana pushed herself abruptly up, ignoring the jellylike frailty of her arms. “There was a boy,” she insisted, grow
