‘Kingston Hospital,’ she said as she messed with the IV drip. ‘How are you feeling?’

I blinked a few times. ‘My neck,’ I said, and she nodded, like I was a kid in kindergarten, sounding out a big word.

‘You’re a lucky woman, you know.’

The machine beeped even more quickly.

‘Could have gotten hurt much worse. Far worse than you did.’ She finished whatever she was doing with the drip and turned on her heel. ‘Try to take it easy. Doctor will be in shortly.’

It came back in flashes as I scooted myself up, biting my cheeks as my neck lit on fire. Going to the bar with Vera. Sam there. The way Vera had almost dared me to leave her: Fucking go.

Then obeying her, abandoning her, Sam following me to the car as I did.

Then nothing. Nothing past that.

Only darkness, pervasive and black.

They fed me brothy soup and green Jell-O, and the doctor asked me questions, making sure my memory was intact, and explained that I’d been brought in the night before, just after midnight. I was out for nearly eighteen hours, and because I was unconscious for so long, they wanted to keep me for observation another night. She explained that I had no major injuries, besides contusions – a fancy word for bruises – on my collarbone and the back of my neck. She asked me about the other bruises on my neck, the ones that Davis had given me, but when I demurred, she didn’t press it, only told me that for the most part I was okay. Vera’s car, not so much.

It had veered off the road and into a tree, the front of it completely smashed. The memories of the crash came to me only in flashes. Snowfall and road and then nothing.

I worried about Dusty, but after a few phone calls made on my behalf, that was cleared up, too. My keys were luckily still in my purse, and Maggie had offered to watch him.

I spent the night flipping channels, numbing out, the IV drip removed, the Jell-O consumed. I watched the sort of TV I used to watch when I visited my parents over the holidays in college. Bad cable reruns. Say Yes to the Dress. Real Housewives. It was welcome, in its way. Lying in a hospital bed, nothing to do. My shattered phone now had a dead battery, too; they’d promised to dig me up a charger, but I was in no rush to get back to reality.

I was protected from Sam Alby, from Davis, from McKnight’s accusations, from Vera’s rightful anger, from everyone. Four white walls and my very own room – and nothing to worry about but bad reality TV.

It was a nice change, after worrying about everything for so long. It was nice, for once, to feel safe.