A dull ache pulsed in my skull as I slowly drifted back to consciousness. My body felt heavy, my limbs sluggish, like I was swimming through molasses. The sterile scent of antiseptic filled my nose, and the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor was the first sound that registered.
I was still in the hospital.
A tired sigh drew my attention. My eyelids fluttered open, adjusting to the bright lights overhead. A middle-aged doctor stood beside my bed, his arms crossed over his chest, a clipboard in hand. His expression was neutral, but there was something relieved in the way he exhaled.
"Finally stable," he muttered, glancing at the monitor.
I swallowed, my throat still raw. "How long?" My voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.
"Seven hours," he replied. "Your vitals were erratic for
