Turning my head is the most movement I can muster. A slow turn to the left lets me see the IV stand by the bed, its thin plastic tube snaking into my hand.

I can also tell that the bandage around my head is gone. My hair slides freely across the pillow when I roll my head in the opposite direction. That’s where the photo of my family sits, my wan reflection visible in the cracked frame.

The sight of that pale face sliced into a dozen slivers causes my right hand to twitch. To my surprise, I can lift it. Not much. Just enough to get it to flop onto my stomach.

I move my hand across the hospital gown. Beneath the paper-thin fabric is a slight bump where a bandage sits. I can feel it on the upper left side of my abdomen, slightly below my breast. Touching it sends pain flashing through my body, cutting the fog enough for me to really feel it. Like a lightning strike.

With the pain comes panic. A confused horror in which I know something is wrong but I can’t tell what it is.

My hand keeps moving down my side, slow and trembling. Just to the left of my navel is a different dreadful rise. Another bandage.

More pain.

More panic.

More smoothing my hand over my stomach, fingers probing, searching for yet another bandage.

I find it in the center of my lower abdomen, several inches below my navel. It’s longer than the others. The pain gets worse when I press down on it. A gasp-inducing flare.

What did you do to me?

I think it more than say it. My voice is a dry croak, barely audible in the room’s dim silence. But in my head it’s a full-throated sob.

At my stomach, the pain burns with more intensity. This fire is no longer distant. It’s here. Roaring across my gut. I clutch it with my one working hand. My thoughts continue to scream. My weakling voice can only moan.

Outside the room, someone hears me.

It’s Bernard, who rushes in, his eyes no longer kind. When he glances my way, he looks not at me but past me. I moan again, and he disappears.

A moment later, Nick enters the room.

I let out another mental howl.

Get away from me! Please don’t touch me!

My voice can’t make it past that first word. A hoarse, haggard “Get.”

Nick removes my hand from my stomach and places it gently at my side. He feels my forehead. He strokes my cheek.

“The surgery was a success,” he says.

A single question forms in my thoughts.

What surgery?

I attempt to ask it, sputtering out half a syllable before the mental fog returns. I can’t tell if it’s exhaustion or if I’ve once again been injected with something. I suspect it’s the latter. Sleep threatens to overtake me. I’m back to being a swimmer, this time sinking into the murky depths.

Before I go under, Nick whispers in my ear.

“You’re fine,” he says. “Everything is fine. Right now, we only needed the one kidney.”

THREE DAYS LATER

46

Hours pass. Maybe days.

It’s hard to tell now that my existence has been reduced to two modes—asleep and awake.

Right now, I’m awake, although the fog makes it difficult to know for sure. It’s so overpowering that everything has the feel of a dream.

No, not a dream.

A nightmare.

In this maybe-nightmare state, I hear voices just outside the door. A man and a woman.

“You need to rest,” the man says.

I note the accent. Dr. Wagner.

“What I need is to see her,” the woman says.

“That’s not a good idea.”

“Ask me if I give a damn. Now push me in there.”

That’s followed by a hum. Rubber wheels on the floor. Someone in motion.

Because of the fog, I can’t recoil when a hand, leathery and rough, clasps my own. My eyelids part just enough to see Greta Manville, looking frail and small in a wheelchair. Her skin clings to her bones. Veins zigzag beneath the papery whiteness. She reminds me of a ghost.

“I didn’t want it to be you,” she says. “I need you to know that.”

I close my eyes and say nothing. I don’t have the strength.

Greta senses this and fills the void with more chatter.

“It was supposed to be Ingrid. That’s what they told me. During her interview, they asked for her medical records and she handed them over. Lo and behold, she was a potential match. But then she left and there you were. Another match. I had no choice in the matter. It was you or certain death. So I chose life. You saved me, Jules. I will always be grateful for that.”

I open my eyes again, just so I can glare at her. I see that she’s wearing a hospital gown similar to mine. Light blue. The same color as the bedroom wallpaper in 12A. Near the collar, someone has pinned a golden brooch just like the one Marjorie Milton was wearing.

An ouroboros.

I pull my hand away from hers and scream until I fall back to sleep.

47

I wake.

I sleep.

I wake again.

Some of the fog has burned away. Now I can move my arms, wiggle my toes, feel the painful intrusion of the IV and catheter that invade my body. I can even tell that someone’s in the room with me. Their presence pokes through my solitude like a splinter through skin.

“Chloe?” I say, hoping against hope that all of this has been a nightmare. That when I open my eyes I’ll be back on Chloe’s couch, heartbroken about Andrew and worried about finding a new job.