The following morning, it dawned on Amara that while the private wing of St. Joseph’s Mercy Hospital was a far cry from the humid, leaf-filtered light of the Rupununi, it felt just as much as a cage. She lay beneath the crisp, white sheets, her skin looking like porcelain against the sterile linen. The IV drip in her arm clicked with a rhythmic, mechanical precision, pumping fluids and high-dose antibiotics into her system to combat the lingering toxins in her blood.
Jessica sat in the armchair by the window, her iPad discarded in her lap. She had been uncharacteristically quiet for the last hour, watching the readout on Amara’s heart monitor. Finally, she looked up, her expression a mix of awe and frustration.
"The doctor just left with your preliminary toxicology screen, Amara," Jessic
