I woke up in a hospital bed, burning with a fever that left me delirious for two days. When my mind finally cleared, Nathaniel was at my bedside. He touched my forehead, his voice soft. "Fever's finally going down."
I stared blankly at the ceiling, ignoring him. He kept talking, but I didn't respond until he said, "Sylvia, don't worry too much. I'll fix your voice."
My eyes flicked to him, confused. I tried to speak, but only a raw, burning pain came from my throat—no sound. Panic flashed across my face.
Seeing it, he patted my arm. "The fever caused bad inflammation and damaged your vocal cords. A quick surgery will fix it."
His confidence eased my nerves, and I let myself believe him.
Three days later, I had a gig. I got a nerve block shot to push through the performance. My bandmat
