I woke to the steady rhythm of machines and the sour, metallic taste coating my throat. The ICU lights burned through half-open lashes, and I forced myself to stay unfocused—just enough awareness to understand, not enough to be noticed.

Harris’s orders.

Ethan’s agitation.

My mother’s outburst.

Hospital administration moved quickly.

Dr. Harris was placed under investigation.

Ethan and my parents were barred from my room pending inquiry.

The detective asked me questions I answered letter by letter.

Did I remember the crash?

Yes.

Did I feel forced off the road?

Yes.

Did Ethan know my route?

Every day.

Did my brakes feel different that morning?

Yes.

The detective’s pen scratched across paper.

“Sometimes,” Lena whispered later, adjusting my blanket, “the most dangerous people are the ones who know your routines.”

Night fell.

ICU lights dimmed.

Machines hummed.

Jake sat in the chair beside me, arms crossed, eyes scanning every shadow.

I stared at the ceiling crack near the wind and replayed the crash.

The way Ethan insisted on taking my car for “maintenance” that week.