The world returned to Amara in a series of disjointed, sterile fragments. First, the smell—the sharp, cloying scent of isopropyl alcohol and bleach that had become the soundtrack to her week. Then, the sound—the rhythmic, electronic chirp-hiss of a blood pressure cuff inflating and deflating against her bicep. Finally, the light—a harsh, fluorescent glare that stabbed at her eyes, forcing a low groan from her parched throat.
“Careful, Counselor. You’re still on the clock, but the world has slowed down without you.”
Amara blinked, her vision slowly coalescing into the concerned, spectacled face of Dr. Giddings. He was holding a clipboard, his expression a mixture of professional disapproval and weary empathy. Behind him, she could see Jessica standing by the door, her arms crossed, her ey
