Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in that sterile, pale glow that makes even healthy people feel sick. The blinds are half-drawn against a grey afternoon sky. Rain tracks down the window in slow, crooked paths.

You’ve been awake for approximately six minutes.

Your throat feels raw. Your chest aches with every breath. There’s an IV taped to the inside of your elbow, and the pulse oximeter on your index finger blinks a steady, reassuring red. The heart monitor beeps in a rhythm you’re beginning to associate with still alive.

A vase of sunflowers sits on the bedside table. They’re too bright. Too cheerful. Wrong, somehow, for the weight pressing down on your ribcage.

And then you turn your head.