The door swung inward, throwing a wedge of harsh yellow light across the dark floor.

“Hannah!”

It was Ethan’s voice, thick with a sudden, sharp terror.

His shoes squeaked against the floor as he rushed to my side.

He dropped to his knees, his hands instantly finding my shoulders.

His palms were warm, a stark contrast to the freezing tile beneath my cheek.

“I need some help in here!” he shouted toward the open corridor.

“No,” I managed to whisper, but the sound died in my throat.

I could barely feel my lips moving.

He did not listen to my protest.

He slid one arm under my knees and the other beneath my back, lifting me with a smooth, practiced strength.

The world spun in a blur of gray and yellow as he hoisted me up.

He laid me back onto the mattress, his face tight with concern.

His stethoscope clinked against the metal bedrail.

“Don’t try to speak,” he said, his fingers pressing firmly against the pulse point on my wrist.

A nurse hurried into the room, her rubber soles squeaking frantically.