“You’re up and moving, I see.” A man walks into the room. He has on navy blue scrubs and a surgicalmask around his face. All I can see are his deep-set eyes and thick eyebrows.
“I feel mostly okay,” I tell him. “A little sore, I think.”
Stiffness is already setting in along my neck and shoulders. But considering I could be dead on theside of the road, I’m grateful it isn’t worse.
“Soreness is to be expected after the kind of accident you had. What caused your accident, do youknow?” His voice is muffled from the mask, making it difficult to hear him. None of the other nurseshave had masks on, so I want to ask why he’s wearing one, but I also don’t want to be rude.
“The driver lost control,” I lie.
I’m not about to tell this man or anyone else that I lunged at Xena and
