Page 10 of What We Burn

A hospital.

I’m in a hospital.

Why am I in a hospital?

“Fury.” Knox is sitting by my bed, a mountain in a visitor’s chair that his frame was never meant to fit. He’s hunched forward, elbows on the edge of my bed, his big hand wrapped around mine.

Beep.

Knox’s grip tightens when my eyes lock on his and focus. “You’re okay, Fury. You’re in the hospital.”

I try to speak and what comes out is a dry, shredded croak.

His thumb moves over my wrist. He brings his head close, voice like thunder muffled under a quilt. “You’re good. Breathe slow.”

I am breathing. Too much, too hard. My body shakes with it, every breath a struggle. There’s a sour, chemical fog filling my nose. Plastic tubes run under it and over my ears like a bridle. I follow the line to the machine, watch the green waveform bounce with my panic.

I open my mouth to speak again, to ask what happened. But what comes out is—nothing. Not even a whisper. Just a broken rasp, like static from a radio that’s been smashed. My throat seizes again and I cough, a hacking, tearing spasm that feels like swallowing razor blades, and my hands fly to my neck⁠—

There’s a bandage. Thick gauze, taped edges, wrapped all the way around. My fingers press against it and even that light pressure sends pain spiking through me so hard my vision tunnels.

“Hey. Don’t touch.” Knox is on his feet, pulling my hands away from my throat with a gentleness that doesn’t match his size. “Leave it alone, Fury. You need to heal.”

I stare at him. My heart monitor is spiking, the beeping faster now, and the question is on my face even though my mouth can’t form it.

What happened to me?

He reads it.

“You’re at Hunter General. Been under the better part of three days,” he says, sitting back down but keeping hold of my hand. “Doctors kept you sedated to let the swelling settle—started bringing you out of it this morning. Took the breathing tube out a few hours ago. You’re on oxygen now.” A pause. His thumb moves across my knuckles. “Someone attacked you, Fury. Outside the apartment. You were—” He stops. Starts again, like he’s choosing his words with pliers. “You were strangled. With a rope. You’ve got damage to your throat—bruising, swelling, abrasions. They did a scan. Nothing’s fractured, but it’s gonna hurt a while.”

Strangled. With a rope.

As in hanged?

But who? How?

I try to piece my memory back together.

I was with Micah.

We were waiting for the food . . .

There was a dog.

It comes back in a single, violent rush. Not piece by piece but all at once, like a wave crashing over the seawall. The little brown terrier in the bushes. Its paw all bent. The whimpering. Me crouching down, reaching in.

“Come here, baby, I’m not going to hurt you⁠—”

The rope dropping over my head. The cinch. My feet leaving the ground.

Clawing at the cord. Fingers splitting. Can’t breathe, can’t scream, the world tilting and the pressure in my skull so massive I could feel my eyes bulging and my tongue going thick and⁠—

And a face. Below me. Looking up through the narrowing tunnel of my vision.

Eli.

I start thrashing.