The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was a white hospital ceiling.
For a few seconds, I didn’t remember where I was.
Then the pain returned.
My leg was wrapped.
Machines surrounded my bed.
A nurse was checking my chart while another person stood quietly near the window.
Mrs.Young.
The neighbor who found me in the rain.
She had tears in her eyes when she saw me awake.
“You scared me,” she whispered.
I tried to speak, but my throat felt dry.
“How long?”
“Three days,” she answered.
Three days.
Three days since Diane Bennett attacked me in my own kitchen.
Three days since my husband, Paul, decided my pain was less important than his mother’s pride.
Three days since I dragged myself across the yard because I understood something terrifying.
The person I married was not coming to rescue me.
Mrs.Young squeezed my hand.
