“There you go,” I whisper as the ache dissipates. “That’s better.”

It’s my own fault that the throbbing is back. I haven’t been to a therapist since I got here. Granted, I thought I would be home by now, but I’ve really made no effort to rehab myself in a couple of weeks.

What’s it matter if I go to rehab or not?

I shake my head, shifting the thought aside.

Of course it matters. It matters if I want to be able to do normal things. It matters if I don’t want to be a selfish prick and have to ask someone to take care of me.

This time, the pull across the back of my neck is from not my injury but stress.

I grit my teeth and sit up. But as soon as my legs touch the ground, the left one goes numb. The only sensation in the lower-left half of my body at all is a tingle just above my knee. It’s as though a hundred knives are being pushed into my skin repeatedly.

“Fuck!” I stomp my leg to try to wake it up. “Come the hell on.”

It takes a full minute for the spasms to stop. I get up as soon as I can bear weight on my leg and walk around my room, limping for the first little while.

Needing a distraction, I grab my phone and pull up my email for the first time in a couple of days—and instantly regret it.

A red exclamation point sits boldly beside one subject line: Urgent—YourChart Update.

I stand in the middle of the guest bedroom, holding my phone like a ticking bomb. I don’t know whether to throw it or try to defuse the situation.

My breathing is shallow as I stare at the subject line. A bead of sweat breaks out across my forehead. My legs are weak and threaten to give out as I try to make sense of the message.

Do I click on it? Do I ignore it?

Ignoring it won’t make it go away.

But it could stop the uncertainty and let me fucking breathe again.

Or not.

“Damn it,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut.

The pit of my stomach—the dark, raw abyss that pools every fear that I’ve been too scared to admit—churns with this information.

The results are in.

I toss my phone on my bed. It’s as if somehow losing the weight of the phone will release me from the burden of the message.

My skin is too tight. My clothes too clingy. I need a shower and a run and to vomit—preferably not in that order.

I run a hand down my face and talk sense to myself.