I blinked awake, groggy and disoriented, the faint smell of chicken soup filling the air around me. My body felt heavy, like I’d been drained of every ounce of energy. The room was dimly lit, the soft glow from the bedside lamp casting long shadows across the walls. I heard a chair scrape the floor nearby, and when I turned my head, a man I didn’t recognize was sitting beside me, a bowl of soup in his hands.
“Ah, you’re awake,” he said, offering me a small smile. His voice was calm, steady. “I’m Chad Anderson, the doctor Marshall sent to look after you. How are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve been hit by a truck,” I muttered, my throat dry and scratchy. I struggled to push myself up in the bed, but Chad placed a gentle hand on my shoulder, urging me to stay down.
“Don’t push it,” he said, his
