The smell of frying bacon and freshly ground Blue Mountain coffee drifted through the sunlight drenched kitchen. It was a domestic, peaceful scent the kind of scent that was supposed to trigger feelings of safety and home.
Nala opened her eyes.
She was lying in a bed with 1,000 thread count silk sheets. The light hitting the white walls of the bedroom was soft, filtered through sheer linen curtains that danced in a gentle breeze. Her body felt light, free of the crushing weight of the volcano, the freezing waters of Lake Como, and the jagged shards of glass from the New York hospital.
She sat up, rubbing her temples. Her head felt empty, like a room that had been vacuumed and scrubbed until the floorboards groaned. There was a faint, high pitched ringing in her ears, a ghost of a sound
