I glanced at the clock on the nightstand. “Is it really noon?”

He nodded. “How are you feeling?”

His eyes were ringed with dark circles; his face was drawn and pinched. When he spoke, it sounded like his vocal chords had been raked across a cheese grater.

“I hurt,” I answered truthfully. “Very badly. And I’m hungry.”

He scrubbed his face vigorously with his hands and blew out a long breath, much like a man who was faced with a task he was too exhausted to undertake would do. But he smiled encouragingly. “Let me take care of the pain first, then I’ll see what I can do about getting you some blood.”

I shifted carefully in the bed, white-hot spears of pain ripping through my torso as I did so. “How long have I been out?”

“Eight days. Nine if I give you enough meds.”

“What about Cyrus?” I thought he looked angry at the mention of his name, and he had every right to be. But I had a right to know. “Did you kill him?”

Nathan looked away from me. “No, we didn’t kill him. I suggested we postpone the mission in case you survived to bitch at me when you found out that we went without you.”

At least he hadn’t lost his sense of humor. Beside the bed, he’d set up a folding card table stocked with clean towels, the first aid kit, and numerous boxes of gauze and medical tape. Most of these were empty.

He lifted a needle and measured out an injection of something. I didn’t care what it was as long as it took away the crushing feeling in my chest.

Gauze wrapped around my torso, giving me the appearance of a fashion-conscious mummy wearing a tube top. I pressed my hand to my ribs and another sharp ache pierced down my body. “I can’t breathe.”

Nathan sat next to me on the bed, carefully trying not to make any movements that would jostle me. “Yes you can. Take deep breaths. If you panic, you’ll hyperventilate.”

He pulled back the blankets and wrapped a tourniquet around my arm. I flinched when he sank the needle into my vein, and acute pain billowed through my limbs.

My memories played out like a rough cut of a movie I only knew half the plot to. The sound was bad, the visuals confusing. There were threads of a coherent story, but no pattern to weave them all together.

“What happened to me?”

Nathan’s face, lined with tension, tried to soften. “What do you remember?”

“Sounds. Pain.” And horrific, physical torment. But I didn’t want to recall that now. “I remember coming back downstairs for the keys, and after that, nothing.”

He shook his head. “You never made it downstairs, Carrie. I found you in the alley.”

The alley. I remembered the sky, that it had been almost dawn and I couldn’t move. “Did I burn?”

“No.” Gently, he removed the needle and recapped it. Although I’d already lectured Nathan about this, I didn’t bother correcting him.