Being shot hurts. Being stabbed hurts. Having your stomach ripped open, like all the way open? That hurts in ways I didn't know existed.

  I float in and out of consciousness for what feels like days. Each time I surface, there's something new and unpleasant to experience. Doctors speaking in hushed tones. Nurses adjusting tubes and monitors. My parents' worried faces. Pain that ebbs and flows like a tide, sometimes receding enough that I can think, other times crashing over me in waves that drag me back under.

  The first time I'm fully conscious - like, actually aware of my surroundings and able to form coherent thoughts - is around 3 AM according to the clock on the wall. The room is dim, lit only by the glow of monitors and the thin stripe of light from the hallway through the cracked door.

  My throat feels like I swallowed a cactus. Every breath scrapes against raw tissue. There's an oxygen cannula in my nose, IVs in both arms, and something bulky wrapped around my right leg. The feeding tube is gone, which I count as a win, but I've gained a catheter, which I definitely count as a loss.

  Mom is asleep in a recliner beside the bed, a hospital blanket pulled up to her chin. Dad is nowhere to be seen - probably got sent home to shower and change. Is home home again, or is he at the Music Hall, collecting our stuff?

  I try to shift my position and immediately regret it. Pain lances through my abdomen, sharp and insistent. I must make some sound because Mom's eyes snap open instantly.

  "Sam?" She's at my side in a second, smoothing my hair back from my forehead. "Are you in pain? I can call the nurse."

  I manage a small nod, not wanting to attempt speech with my slowly healing trachea.

  She presses the call button. "Just breathe. Try not to move."

  A nurse appears within minutes, checking my vitals before administering something into my IV. "This should help with the pain," she says. "The doctor will be in to see you in the morning. Try to rest."

  The medication works quickly, dulling the sharp edges of pain to something more manageable. I feel myself drifting, but fight to stay conscious.

  "Water?" I rasp, the single word feeling like sandpaper in my throat.

  Mom helps me take small sips through a straw. Even that hurts, but the cool liquid provides some relief.

  "Better?" she asks.

  I nod slightly. "Time?"

  "You've been here about thirty hours," she says, understanding my truncated question. Her face scrunches up into an untidy, weary smile.

  I want to tell her I'm okay, that I've survived worse (though I'm not sure that's true. Maybe Illya.), but my eyelids are growing heavy again. The last thing I see before sleep reclaims me is Mom wiping tears from her cheeks.

  Morning brings Dr. Song and a team of medical students who hover at the edges of my room like nervous birds. She checks my vitals, examines my wounds, and seems pleased with what she finds.

  "Your regeneration is working as expected," she tells me. "The wounds are closing cleanly. However," she adds, holding up a finger, "we need to discuss your antibiotic regimen."

  She explains about intestinal perforation, bacterial contamination, and the risk of infection. Words like "sepsis" and "peritonitis" float around the room. Something about my blood and Shrike's blood mixing, contaminants from the construction site getting into open wounds.

  "We've got you on a broad-spectrum combination," she says. "Intravenous for now, then we'll transition to oral if all goes well."

  The antibiotics, it turns out, are worse than the surgery. By afternoon, I'm experiencing what the nurse cheerfully calls "common side effects." My mouth tastes like I've been licking pennies. My stomach churns constantly. Food is out of the question, though they keep trying to make me eat bland hospital fare that smells like wet cardboard.

  "The nausea is normal," Dr. Song assures me during her evening rounds. "Your body is healing remarkably fast, but the antibiotics are still necessary. Regeneration typically doesn't come with enhanced resistance to bacteria."

  She's right about the healing. By the end of day two, I can speak in short sentences without feeling like my throat is being shredded. The external fixator on my leg is a medieval-looking contraption that holds the bones in place while they knit back together. The wound in my abdomen is covered with a high-tech dressing that looks exactly like the low-tech dressing, and I could not for the life of me tell you what the difference is.

  Dad brings me a paper cup of ice chips, which have become my primary source of hydration since water makes me nauseous. "How's the pain today?"

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  "Manageable." I shift carefully, trying to find a comfortable position. "These antibiotics are killing me, though."

  "Better than the alternative," he says grimly.

  Hard to argue with that.

  "The hospital psychiatrist wants to meet with you," Mom says, looking up from her phone. "Dr. Patel. Your regular doctor recommended her."

  Great. Just what I need. "When?"

  "Tomorrow morning, if you're up to it."

  I nod, too tired to argue. Besides, if I want to leave this place eventually, I'll need to jump through all the hoops they put in front of me.

  Dr. Patel is a small woman with big glasses and a voice that's somehow both soft and authoritative. She pulls up a chair beside my bed, notepad balanced on her knee.

  "How are you feeling physically, Samantha?" she asks after introducing herself.

  "Like I've been chewed up and spit out," I reply honestly. "But better than yesterday."

  She smiles slightly. "That's a good sign. And mentally? How are you processing what happened?"

  I shrug, then wince as the movement pulls at my stitches. "I haven't really had time to process anything. I've been mostly unconscious or throwing up from antibiotics."

  "That's understandable. But when you do think about the incident, what comes up for you?"

  I stare at the ceiling, considering. "I don't know. It doesn't feel real yet. Like it happened to someone else."

  "That's a common response to trauma," she says. "Dissociation helps us cope with experiences that are too overwhelming to process all at once."

  We talk for about half an hour. She asks about nightmares (none yet, but I've barely been asleep for real), flashbacks (hard to say when I'm on this many drugs), and my thoughts about Shrike's death. On that last one, I'm honest - I don't know how I feel. Relieved he can't hurt anyone else? Guilty that I couldn't save him? Confused that it doesn't feel more significant?

  "You've experienced something that most people never will," Dr. Patel says as our session wraps up. "There's no right way to feel about it. But I want you to know that whatever you're feeling - or not feeling - is valid for you. There's no wrong way to feel."

  She leaves me with her card, a promise to check in tomorrow, and a consent form - permission to request notes from Dr. Desai, the last doctor I ever expressed any complicated emotions around. I'm exhausted from the conversation, but it's a different kind of tired than the physical fatigue I've been feeling.

  Dad returns with more ice chips and a tablet loaded with movies. "Thought you might want a distraction."

  I accept both gratefully. "Any news from the outside world?"

  He hesitates, which tells me everything I need to know. "Let's focus on getting you better first."

  "Dad."

  He sits on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle me. "The police and NSRA want to talk to you. Your mother and I have been holding them off, but they're insistent."

  I mean, I knew that. Dr. Song told me that already. "When?"

  "Tomorrow, if you're up to it. We'll be with you the whole time."

  I nod, trying to ignore the knot forming in my stomach. "Fine."

  "Only if you're ready," he emphasizes.

  "I know you say that, but I don't think they're going to wait for us," I mumble.

  Dad laughs weakly. "No. Probably not."

  By day three, I've graduated from liquid diet to soft foods, which is less of an upgrade than it sounds when everything still tastes like metal. The nausea comes in waves, usually about an hour after each antibiotic dose. The nurses have started giving me anti-nausea medication preemptively, which helps but leaves me feeling disconnected, like I'm watching myself from a distance.

  Maggie and Lily are finally allowed to visit, though only for fifteen minutes. They hover awkwardly at the foot of my bed, clearly shocked by my appearance despite their attempts to hide it.

  "You look..." Maggie starts.

  "Like I got run over by a train?" I suggest.

  "I was going to say 'better than expected,' but sure," she laughs, some of the tension easing from her shoulders.

  Lily is quieter, her eyes taking in every tube and monitor. "How long until you're out of here?"

  "Dr. Song says maybe tomorrow or the day after, if my blood work looks good and I can keep food down." I manage a weak smile. "Missing your fearless leader?"

  "Something like that," she murmurs.

  There's more I want to ask them both, but this isn't the time or place. We make awkward small talk until a nurse appears to usher them out.

  "Rest," the nurse reminds me, adjusting my IV. "Your body is working overtime."

  That's an understatement. I can feel my tissues knitting back together, cells multiplying at an accelerated rate to repair damage. Well, no, I can't feel every cell. But I can feel a general burning itching scratching that sits just underneath the skin, inside my organs. Having your stomach itch is not a nice sensation. But I fall asleep anyway.

  I doze off after they leave, only to be awakened by Dr. Song's evening rounds. She seems pleased with my progress.

  "Your regeneration rate is remarkable," she says, reviewing my chart. "The tracheal damage is almost completely healed. The abdominal wound is closing properly. Even your leg is showing significant improvement."

  "So I can go home soon?"

  "I can't promise anything right now. But I can't foresee you staying longer than two or three more days at the most." She gives me a measured look over her glasses. "We'd definitely like to keep you a little longer than normal for someone of your abilities just for observation, and to watch for rejections."

  "I know," I say, though I'm not sure I do. Right now, everything still feels distant, unreal. The fight with Shrike plays in my head like a movie I watched rather than something I experienced firsthand. I feel like I'm trapped behind a glass wall.

  Dr. Song seems to read my thoughts. "It's normal to feel disconnected right now. Your body is focusing all its energy on physical repair. The emotional processing will come later, often when you least expect it."

  Great. Something to look forward to.

  "Try to get some rest," she says. "Tomorrow will be challenging in different ways."

  Try to get some rest, try to get some rest, try to get some rest. Does anyone have anything different to say? Anything interesting? All I have is a tablet full of movies, homework that I'm ignoring, and my bed. There's a catheter in me. You think it's easy to sleep with a tube up your hoo ha? Try and get some rest. Yeah, buddy, I've been trying. Stop telling me that.

  As she leaves, I stare at the ceiling, counting the tiny holes in the acoustic tiles. I'm not looking forward to rehashing everything with the police and NSRA. Not looking forward to facing my parents when all this is over. Not looking forward to whatever emotional tsunami Dr. Song thinks is heading my way.

  I'm really not looking forward to anything at all.