Before I open my eyes, I know where I am. I also know why.
Someone fed me nuts.
Someone.
Finn.
That knowledge is dizzying, and so I focus instead on where I am.
I recognize the sterile medicinal smell of the hospital. I listen with my eyes closed, hearing the rubbery squeak of the nurses’ shoes, the beeps of the machines, the low murmurings out in the hallway.
I have a tube in my nose. Oxygen. The room spins, and I shift it back into focus.
Concentrate, Calla.
I open my eyes and the room spins. I shift it back into focus.
“Calla?”
My dad’s voice is calm and low. Shifting my gaze without moving my head, I find him in the corner chair, watching me in concern.
“I’m not dead?”
He smiles. “No. Thank God.”
My memory is blurry. “There were nuts,” I recall. “In my food.”
My father cringes. “Yes. I’m sorry, Calla. I didn’t see….”
“How long have I been here?” I ask. My voice is scratchy, my throat raw. I know from experience that they probably shoved a breathing tube down it.
“About four hours. We called an ambulance. You were out the whole time. You’ll be fine now. By tomorrow, you’ll be good as new, but they want to keep you overnight for observation.”
I nod.
I feel heavy, groggy, slow.
“What’s wrong with me?” I ask slowly.
“They gave you something to calm you down,” my father says hesitantly. His eyes are on my face, like he’s worried I’m going to fly off the handle. Did I before?
“Where’s Finn?”
My father looks away. “He can’t be in here, honey.”
“Why?”
My father sighs, and looks back to me. “You know why, Calla.”
I close my eyes. Because Finn knows I’m allergic to nuts. He knew and he gave them to me anyway.
Is that his version of saving me? Saving me from what? Sadness? Was his plan to kill me, then himself?
Pain ripples through me, slow, then hard, then unbearably, like a wave.
“I need to see him,” I say, the words cutting my lungs.
“No.” My father’s voice is firm.