from her chest that tightened and made each breath an agony, from the very bones that made up her face, and from her back, which burned. At times, she could feel separate pieces of the pain, but then it all melted together and flowed across her, blending into itself and blotting out anything that wasn’t pain. Later, she was to remember only three things: the doctor’s hand on her jaw, a touch that turned itself into a white flash of light to her brain; Flavia’s hand on her shoulder, the only warmth in this sea of cold; and the moment when the men lifted her from the ground, when she screamed and fainted.
Hours later, when she woke, the pain was still there, but something kept it at arm’s length. She knew that, if she were to move, even so little as a millimetre, it would come back and be even worse, so she lay perfectly motionless, feeling into each separate part of her body to see where the worst of the pain was lurking, but before she could command her mind to begin, she was overpowered by sleep.
Later, she woke again and, this time, with great caution sent her mind exploring to various parts of her body. The pain was still being held far away from her, and it no longer seemed that motion would be so dangerous. She brought her mind to her eyes and tried to determine what lay beyond them, light or darkness. She couldn’t tell, so she let her mind roam on, down across her face, where pain lurked, then to her back, which throbbed warmly, and then to her hands. One was cold, the other warm. She lay motionless for what seemed hours and considered this: how could one hand be cold and the other warm? She lay still for eternity and let her mind consider that puzzle.
One warm and one cold. She determined that she would move them to see if that made a difference, and, an age later, she began. She tried to pull them into fists and managed to move them only slightly. But it was enough - the warm one found itself embraced by increased warmth and the gentlest of pressures from above and below. She heard a voice, one that she knew to be familiar but couldn’t recognize. Why was that voice speaking Italian? Or was it Chinese? She understood what it said, but she couldn’t remember what language it was. She moved her hand again. How pleasant that answering warmth had been. She tried it again, and she heard the answering voice, felt the warmth. Oh, how magical that was. There was speech that she understood, and warmth, and a part of her body that was free of pain. Comforted by this, she slept again.
Finally she was conscious and realized why one hand was warm and one cold, ‘Flavia,’ she said, barely making a noise.
The pressure on her hand increased. And the warmth. ‘I’m here,’ Flavia said, voice very close to her.
Without knowing how she knew it, Brett knew that she couldn’t turn her head to speak to or look at her friend. She tried to smile, tried to say something, but some force held her mouth shut and prevented her from opening it. She tried to scream out or cry for help, but the invisible force held her mouth shut and prevented her.
‘Don’t try to talk, Brett,’ Flavia said, increasing the pressure on her hand. ‘Don’t move your mouth. It’s wired. One of the bones in your jaw is cracked. Please don’t try to talk. It’s all right. You’ll be all right.’
It was very difficult to understand all those words. But the weight of Flavia’s hand was enough, the sound of her voice sufficient to calm her.
When she woke, she was fully conscious. It was still something of an effort to open her eye, but she could do it, though the other wouldn’t open. She sighed in relief that cunning was no longer necessary to outwit her body. She looked around and saw Flavia asleep, hunched down in her chair, mouth agape and head tilted back. Her arms hung slack on either side of her chair, leaving her completely abandoned to sleep.
As she watched Flavia, Brett again scouted her own body. She might be able to move her arms and legs, though it would be painful, in a generalized, unspecified way. She seemed to be lying on her side, and her back ached, a dull, fiery pain. At last, knowing that this was the worst, she tried to open her mouth and felt the terrible inner pressure against her teeth. Wired shut, but she could move her lips. The worst was that her tongue was trapped in her mouth. At the realization, she felt real panic. What if she coughed? Choked? She pushed that thought away violently. If she was this lucid, then she was all right. She saw no tubes running from her bed, knew nothing was in traction. So this was as bad as it was going to be, and this was bearable. Just. But bearable.
Suddenly, jokingly, she was conscious of thirst. Her mouth burned with it, throat aching. ‘Flavia,’ she said, voice soft, barely audible, even to herself. Flavia’s eyes opened and she stared about herself in near-panic, the way she always did when she woke suddenly. After a moment, she leaned forward in her chair and brought her face close to Brett’s.
‘Flavia, I’m thirsty,’ she whispered.
‘And good morning to you, too,’ Flavia answered, laughing out loud in relief, and Brett knew then that she was going to be all right.
Turning, Flavia picked up a glass of water from the table behind her. She bent the plastic straw and set it between Brett’s lips, careful to place it on the left side, away from the swollen cut that pulled her mouth down. ‘I’ve even got it filled with ice, the way you like it,’ she said, holding the straw steady in the glass while Brett tried to sip from it. Her dry lips were sealed closed, but finally she managed to pry one corner open, and blessed cold, blessed wet water spilled across her teeth and down her throat.
After she had taken only a few swallows, Flavia pulled the glass away, saying, ‘Not so much. Wait for a bit, and then you can have more.’
‘I feel doped,’ Brett said.
‘You are,
‘What time is it?’
Flavia looked down at her watch. ‘Quarter to eight.’
The number had no meaning at all. ‘Morning or night?’
‘Morning.’
‘What day?’
Flavia smiled and answered, ‘Tuesday.’
‘In the morning?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why are you here?’
