I press my temples with my fingers, wondering if I’ve woken up from surgery, or some kind of coma. Maybe the doctors managed to save me. Maybe what I thought was death was just a little bit of general anesthesia.

“How are you feeling?”

I look up and see a woman with short dark hair sitting next to me. Her voice is gentle but not concerned. Maybe it means I’m okay.

I wince as I straighten my back, because every inch of me feels like a battered lump of minced meat. I force my eyes shut to fight the pain and try to imagine something peaceful to tether me to a happy place, but all I can see is the blackness of that gun barrel pointed right at my chest.

When I open my eyes again, the woman is holding a round white pill in her hand.

“It will take away the migraines,” she says with a smile that creases the sides of her mouth.

I hesitate. Uncertainty gnaws at the edge of my mind, and everything inside my head feels like it’s surrounded by fog. I can’t even form a question or make sense of where I am.

I’m not ready for medication.

I shake my head and hope she understands. Right now I need to feel everything. I need to feel like I’m really awake.

She pulls her hand away, and I notice there’s no name tag on her shirt. When I glance up at the rest of the room, I realize it’s unlike any hospital I’ve ever seen. There are no machines, or wires, or beeping noises. The room doesn’t smell like alcohol swabs or sterilized plastic. And everything looks too modern.

Not just modern—it’s bordering on futuristic, I note, taking in the crooked shapes of the windows and the silver doorframes.

And it doesn’t slip past me that there isn’t a bouquet of flowers or a card in sight.

Panic sets in like the sudden onslaught of hail on a sunny day, and every thought that passes through my mind feels like a sharp stab.

Oh God, do my parents not know I’m here? Did I forget to bring my ID? Am I a Jane Doe and nobody even knows I was shot at some crappy gas station in the middle of nowhere? Is anyone even looking for me, or have I been asleep so long they’ve all given up?

I frown. “Did… did anyone call my parents?” I look down at my wrist instinctively, but my O-Tech watch is gone. Ophelia isn’t here to help me, not that there would likely be any charge left anyway. I’m not a medical expert, but I’ve watched plenty of Marvel shows, and even Luke Cage slept for a while after being shot.