The hum of the hospital was different from the hum of the savannah. In the Rupununi, the silence was a living thing, vibrating with the sounds of insects and distant predators. At St. Joseph’s Mercy Hospital in Georgetown, the silence was manufactured—a sterile, pressurized quiet punctuated by the squeak of rubber soles on linoleum and the rhythmic, electronic beep of a heart rate monitor.
Amara lay back against the stiff, white pillows of her private suite, watching the clear liquid from the IV drip slowly snake its way into her vein. The coolness of the saline was the only thing grounding her. Her head felt as though it were packed with wet cotton, a lingering effect of the concussion that made every sharp sound feel like a needle piercing her eardrum.
Dr. Giddings, a man whose calm de
