I scoot my back to the wall, then push myself to stand.

My eyes are bloodshot. There’s a gash on my head from where I hit the vanity. It’s crusted with silver blood. Guessing it won’t heal anytime soon, not while the wolfsbane is still in my system. There are small shards of glass embedded in my hands. I do my best to dig them out.

I stumble into my bedroom to grab a beanie and gloves to conceal my injuries, then slide down the stairs on my ass, taking deep breaths so I don’t pass out.

“I just have to get shoes,” I say to Mom and Guy, who stand at the front door.

Their faces are blurs, and I’m grateful not to have to see their expressions. I have a feeling they’re pretty horrified at the state I’m in. Can’t say that I blame them.

I’m wearing so many layers, I look like the Michelin Man.

I take a pair of shoes off the rack and slip them on. They’re Scarlett’s. Platform Mary Janes adorned with an excess of zippers.

“I’m ready,” I say, shuffling to the door. These shoes are too heavy. I can’t lift my feet.

“Are you drunk?” Mom asks. “Are you high?”

“I wish,” I say. “Where’s Scarlett?”

“She’s already there. Matty’s with her.”

I don’t remember making it into the car, but I’m in the car, drooling on the seat belt.

“We’re here,” Guy says, opening the door and helping me out. His hand feels slippery and weird.

I’m in the waiting room, knees to my chest in an uncomfortable chair. The lights are so bright. I pull my hat down over my eyes.

“Rory,” someone whispers. “Rory.”

It’s Ash.

She hands me a bottle of water. “Here you go.”

I gulp it down. “My angel.”

“You want some more?” She pulls another water bottle out of her giant bag. I drink it.

I’m still vaguely dizzy. I take in my surroundings.

“Shit,” I say. “Where’s Scarlett?”

“She’s in the room,” Ash says. “It’ll be a while. Why don’t we go get you something to eat?”

She walks me down to the cafeteria and buys me a prepackaged chicken Caesar salad. I eat the entire thing, even the lettuce. That’s how hungry I am.

“How are you feeling?” she asks me.

“Fine,” I say, scratching my neck. “I’m just . . . really hot. Is it hot in here? I was cold but now I’m hot.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

I look down. I have huge sweat stains, meaning I’ve managed to sweat through multiple sweatshirts.

“Uh!”

“I can take you home to change.”

“I’m not leaving,” I say. “I promised Scarlett I’d be here.”

“We have time,” she says. “Trust me.”

“I don’t want to leave the hospital.”

“Okay,” she says. “To the gift shop.”

The gift shop doesn’t exactly have the greatest selection. I end up getting a large green sweatshirt that reads, I’m a Grandpa! It’s big enough, I can wear it as a dress. I change into it in the bathroom after scrubbing my face and armpits with hand soap. I’m careful not to let the medallion touch my skin in the process.