“Yes, although—” She stopped and scratched the corner of her eye. It was so unlike her that I knew she was profoundly uncomfortable with whatever she was about to say. “There’s more to recovery than just physical healing.”

Well, obviously. I wished I could reassure her that my emotional defects wouldn’t be a hindrance to her well-ordered life, but in truth I had no idea.

Should I come clean? Tell her about the nightmares? Or did she, perhaps, already know—was there some reference to them in the files she had snooped into?

I surprised myself with that word—snooped. That wasn’t fair.

“I wanted you to know that if you need to talk about anything, you can come to me. It’s quite common for there to be lingering effects after the kind of trauma you’ve been through. They can surface at unexpected times.”

Such as, for instance, a generalized sense of having no idea why you were still on the planet, maybe? I wouldn’t say it came at unexpected times. It was like a winter coat someone had superglued to my skin.

I gave her a tight-lipped smile and a stiff shrug.

“But please,” she said. “If you see anything, or—”

“See anything?” I asked. “What do you mean?”

She blushed, looking like she wished she could vanish into thin air like a genie. “I mean—the reports mentioned—I’m only quoting the doctors, you understand . . . but the hallucinations?”

“What?” I asked. “Hallucinations? No, no, I haven’t had those.”

“And memory loss?” she asked. “Time sort of . . . slipping away?”

“No,” I said, and as soon as I said it, I wondered if not remembering anything about the actual accident counted.

“Oh, well, good,” she said quickly, too brightly. “I’m so glad. That means your recovery is going smoothly.”

Yeah, you think that now, I thought. But wait until the screaming starts.

“I’m sorry to burden you with this,” she said. “Today wasn’t the right day. You’re already processing so much, coming here and adjusting to the way we do things. I wanted to make sure you felt that we were looking out for you . . . the way your parents might.”

Her words sliced like a knife right into my soft parts. I looked up at the ceiling, trying not to show how deeply they wounded me.

“I’m sorry, Margot,” Laura said. “I’m so sorry.”

Oh no. Come on. I didn’t need anyone’s understanding or compassion. I knew how terrible it was—why did people think I needed reminding? Why did they think I needed to rehash the accident all the time?

But that wasn’t what she meant.