New York City, summer 1995
Fran Jonas hesitated in the doorway. She looked up and down the corridor before she slipped from the private hospital room. With a glance at the ‘No Visitors’ sign on the door, she twitched her lips in a grim smile before she began creeping stiffly away. Neither sign nor privacy would keep her safe much longer, anyway.
Her heart fluttered, as if seeking release from the cramp of her tightly taped ribs. Sweat moistened her cold hands. Now I know how a prisoner feels, trying to escape.
Her skin shrank from contact with her clothes. The dirty, disheveled jeans and sweater still bore traces of grime and blood. Her blood. Given a choice, she would never have put them on again, but she had to. She had no other clothes and no one she dared call to bring her any.
Lyi
