“Request granted,” the woman states plainly in my ears, and I feel the panel rise behind me, releasing my head. Cool air hits my face like ice water as I stumble away from the wall and fall to the floor. The panel descends to cover the hole and it’s as though it never existed. There’s my potted face staring down at me in condemnation. My planted head.

Ever bake a tomato? That was my face, red and soft and runny. Steam rose from it like a matchstick. Gasping, I looked around for Malia and found her lurking in the shadows with her back turned and her hands cupped over her ears, her body trembling. I could hear fearful mewls coming as she willfully ignored my cries.

I shuddered from relief and the chill of cooling down, and my first manic thought was to go back, break the emergency glass and use the straight razor. I was done; finished. She had me pegged at first glance. There was no way I could last through the night.

Shit, but I had to. The pleas I had just made had been a promise to my son. If nothing else, I had to get back home to make sure my family was okay.

It took a couple of minutes for my head to cool down enough to think clearly. Malia had peeked over her shoulder and swooned with relief when she saw me. Strange, as I figured her concern for my safety was pretty low after she slammed my head into the hospital bed. Mascara ran in streaks down her face as she approached me, sniffling. I had placed her in her mid-twenties when I first saw her, but she looked much older now. A middle-age mom stumbling home from a Halloween party after the keg had run dry.

I shook my head, trying to fill it with something to say.

Malia knelt next to me, felt my forehead with the back of her hand and winced. She leaned forward and blew cool air on my face and my whole body broke out in gooseflesh. My nurse. Right, I’d forgotten. My guardian.

“Are you okay?” she said, actually looking sincere.

Nothing about this was funny, but for some reason I laughed. My throat was sore from breathing hot fumes and straining against the wall paneling. “I’m done,” I croaked, shaking my head.

She combed her fingers through my hair. “He won’t let you quit.”

“He? Who’s he? Mr. O or whatever the fuck?”

With mascara streaking down her face, she looked like the Cheshire cat.

“I didn’t say I was quitting,” I said. “I said I’m done.”

Her cool breath was like a glacial breeze. “Just rest,” she said. “You’ve made it this far. That’s farther than most.”