The IV line gave a soft hiss before the nurse unhooked it.
Within minutes of the suppressant entering my bloodstream, the fire behind my eyes cooled to a low ember. The spinning stopped. The nausea loosened its grip, shrinking into something distant and tolerable.
As we stepped out of the sterile sliding doors, the winter air felt like a fresh sheet of paper.
I took a breath, and for the first time, the city didn't just smell like exhaust and cold.
I caught a trace of something sharp—crushed pine? Someone's laundry detergent three blocks away?
The scents caught at the back of my throat, layered and intrusive. Proof that something inside me had shifted while I lay unconscious.
Alex walked half a step behind me. His shoulders were pulled so tight they nearly swallowed his neck. He still wouldn't look at me.
When we reached a concrete planter near the curb, a dry cough scratched up my throat.
"My throat feels like sandpaper," I muttered.
