Mom must have hooked up the IV. She did that for me once after a grueling practice made my legs cramp with dehydration. But how did she get permission to bring so many bags home from the hospital, and why did she daisy-chain them together? Why did she let them go dry?

“Mom?” I call out in a voice so hoarse I hardly recognize it as my own. No answer. She’s probably working an afternoon shift.

I roll my shoulders, trying to get movement and circulation back. Lactic acid burns in my deltoids, and my head refuses to rotate to the right. I must have dropped off to sleep in one position and not budged the whole time. A hot shower will help. If I’m quick, there’s still time to make the last hour of practice.

Shower.

Suddenly, I’m craving water more than I’ve craved anything in my life. Cool, clear water. Gallons of water.

I rip the medical tape off my hand and yank out the needle. The pain makes the edges of the world close in around me—or maybe it’s the sight of yellow puss oozing out of the wound. I lurch to my feet and stumble toward my bathroom. I misjudge the doorway and bash my forehead against the jamb, but I don’t care. Oh, god, water.

I fumble blindly for the faucet, twist the knob. The sound of water flowing makes me stupid. I knock my skull against the spout in my haste to get underneath it, and I gulp like a wild animal. It slides down my throat, a waterfall of wonder, sweeter than honey, more filling than Mom’s baked mac and cheese.

My stomach squeezes like a vise, and I don’t even have time for a breath before I vomit all that glorious water back into the sink. It whirls down the drain, tinged with greenish bile but not much else.

I’m still so thirsty I could die of it, but I have to be smarter. I grab my rinse cup and place it under the faucet. It takes all my control to watch it fill up, to bring it slowly to my lips, to take only tiny sips.

My stomach heaves again, but this time the water stays down. I pull the cup away from my face and breathe, in for four, out for four. I take another sip. Breathe again. Another sip. Physical gains take patience, Coach D always says. Patience and pain.

I set the empty cup down, wanting more, more, more but knowing full well by the way the water sloshes around in my stomach that I need to give my body time to adjust. Later, Paige. You can have more later.

I reach into the shower and turn on the hot water. While it heats up, I glance at the mirror. I almost scream.