I stared at the ceiling of our bedroom, counting the intricate patterns in the crown molding for what felt like the hundredth time. Beside me, my knitting needles lay abandoned, a half-finished... something that was supposed to be a baby hat but looked more like a misshapen sock. On the nightstand, watercolor paints dried on a palette next to a crumpled attempt at painting the view outside my window.
"I'm dying of boredom," I muttered to the empty room.
Bed rest was torture. Pure, mind-numbing torture. I'd been confined to this bed for nearly a week now, allowed to move only for bathroom breaks and my new "approved" downstairs rest area during the day.
I picked up my phone and opened the language app I'd downloaded yesterday. "The cat drinks milk," I repeated after the robotic voice, then immediately closed the app. I didn't care about Spanish-speaking cats and their dairy preferences.
