I reached for the laptop, started to type out my message for the text-to-speech speaker, using keys that were oversized and spaced out, with screwholes in the middle of each key for knobs and joysticks to be screwed in for when other patients had their turn. It was supposed to double as physical therapy for me, coordinating myself, making the effort to reach and reposition.

The staff member had apologized, then turned to go notify other patients, closing the door behind her. I’d tried to vocalize and of course I’d failed. It was too long and byzantine a way from lung to mouth.

The message had been left unfinished on my screen, only a few words of what I’d wanted to say. Even completed, the statement wouldn’t have meant anything to the staff member, and they wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. All I’d wanted to express was that my family had missed the last two visiting days as well.

My eye had found the clock on the laptop, noted the ‘F’. Friday.

One eye on the clock, watching the minutes. One eye on the television. One eye on the F, counting the days to Monday. One eye for the email icon on the computer screen, waiting for the apology email that would come. When it did, I would check the time, comparing it to other apology emails, to try and figure out if they were getting further apart, less. To see if they would stop entirely, a prelude to the visits ceasing altogether, because it was easier to forget me than to do otherwise.

Something inside of me had broken at that. I’d known it would cost me privileges. Maybe even visits. I’d known it would hamper or hurt other patients and staff across the hospital. Ones who didn’t deserve it.

But I had nothing else.

I’d pushed out with my aura, as hard as I could, as far as I could.

I pushed out with my aura, as hard as I could, as far as I could.

Things had been happening while I was elsewhere. The building shook. The villains were gone.

“Victoria!”

Jasper.