High-thread-count sheets brushed my arms when I woke. The helicopter noise had given way to the low hum of medical equipment and the regular beep of the monitor beside me. I was in the private suite on the top floor of the Sterling Medical Center, with the city visible through floor-to-ceiling windows. An insulin pump rested beside the bed, connected and working.
Elias sat in an armchair by the window. When I moved, he came over and handed me a tablet.
The screen showed a timeline from the watch. A red line marked my heart rate from the collapse to the critical alert. An audio track began at the lowest point. Elias tapped play.
Noah’s voice filled the room. *“Keep rolling. Don’t you dare cut the cameras. If she dies today, she brought it on herself. This is television gold.”*
A second
