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“Sorry,” she says. “I know that hurts.”

“It's fine.”

“Anna.” She waits until I look at her. “You don't have to convince me you're fine. I need you to tell me what you're feeling so I can take care of you.”

The words land harder than they should.

“Everything hurts,” I admit. “My head. My stomach. The lights are making me want to crawl out of my skin.”

“That's useful information.” She straightens and removes her gloves. “Given the way you were injured and the symptoms you're describing, I'm concerned you have a concussion. We'll assess you for that and monitor you while we treat the cut.”

“Does that mean I get to keep the stitches?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“Perfect.”

This time she actually smiles.

“We'll get you comfortable, and I'll explain what you need to watch for afterward. Someone should stay with you tonight.”

“She’s staying with us. One of our friends is there now; she’s a doctor,” Hildy says from the corner.

“A head doctor,” I laugh.

“Psychologist?” Dr. Patel glances at her, and she nods. “Good, she’ll need that too.”

“I should feel some sort of way about that.”

She smiles, “Seen?” I laugh and wince at the same damn time. “And if anything worsens, you come back immediately. We'll go over the specifics before you leave.”

She pulls over a tray, and I turn my attention to the ceiling tiles while she prepares the local anesthetic.

The first injection burns. Then another. I grip the edge of the bed, focusing on the tiny holes in the acoustic tiles above me. There are twenty-seven in the first square, twenty-seven in the next, and twenty-six in the third because one is partially hidden behind the light fixture.

I count them again.

By the time Dr. Patel begins stitching, I have reached one hundred and thirty-four.

Hildy keeps up a quiet stream of commentary about the hospital's questionable decorating choices, apparently determined to distract me without admitting she’s doing it. I listen to the sound of her voice and concentrate on the steady pressure of her hand around mine.

When the doctor finishes the last stitch, she steps back to inspect her work.

“Six,” she confirms. “All done.”

“Excellent. I was hoping to collect the set.”

“Let's not make a habit of it.”

She cleans the area once more, explains how to care for the wound, and gives me instructions for monitoring the concussion. I listen, ask a couple of questions, and promise to follow the guidance even though my head is pounding hard enough to make the words swim.

When she leaves, the room seems quieter.

I touch the edge of the dressing above my eyebrow, careful not to press against the stitches.

“Let me see your face,” I tell Hildy.

She turns back to me, and I study the scratch along her cheekbone.