I jolt awake like someone's just yanked me up from the bottom of a lake. My chest heaves, lungs clawing for air that doesn't feel like enough, and for a few seconds I don't even recognize where the hell I am. My eyes whip around in a frenzy—dark ceiling, the glow of the nightstand lamp that we forgot to turn off, the familiar curve of the headboard. Warm sheets sticking to my skin. Our room.
But my body won't calm down. I'm trembling so hard the mattress shudders with me, breaths ragged and uneven, like I've been sprinting for miles with something chasing me. My skin is clammy, hair plastered across my forehead in sweaty strands, and my heart—it's a hammer in my chest, so loud it drowns out everything else.
I push the blanket off to breathe better—and freeze.
There's mud on my legs. Not
