Waking began with a machine squeezing my lower legs beneath a blanket I could not remember receiving. My mouth tasted wrong, while every breath stopped against a hard band of pain beneath my left side. I opened my eyes because remaining unconscious had apparently become the less comfortable option.
Morning pressed through a narrow hospital window, exposing the tubes attached to both hands. A clear line entered my right arm, while a red clip held one finger hostage. Three adhesive monitoring pads disappeared beneath the loose gown covering my chest.
The room contained two chairs, one cabinet, plus Nina Shoka asleep beside my bed. She had folded herself into the worse chair with her cheek against one sleeve. Her blonde hair covered half her face, leaving the other half marked by the seam of her jacket.
For several confused seconds, I assumed the pain medication had become unusually ambitious. Nina shifted when the leg machine released, tightening her wrapped hand against her chest before settling again. A university visitor sticker clung crookedly near her shoulder, dated the previous night.
The clock above the door showed eight twenty-three, which meant she had stayed through hours I could not account for. That fact required a response, though my body currently offered thirst plus an urgent desire to stop existing below the neck, making the easier problem obvious.
Reaching for the water cup pulled something beneath my ribs, turning a small movement into an immediate lesson. My breath escaped sharply through my teeth before the cup had even moved. Nina woke with her head rising so quickly that the chair struck the wall.
"Do not do that," she said, standing while one hand caught the cup, "there is a button for people who enjoy surviving surgery."
"The button looked busy," I replied, though my voice sounded borrowed from someone much older.
Relief moved across her face before anger covered it, leaving both visible around her eyes. She filled a sponge stick from the water cup, then stopped near my mouth instead of assuming. I nodded once because dignity had already lost several important battles today.
"Small amount," Nina said, touching the sponge against my lips while she watched me swallow, "the nurse said you cannot drink properly until they check your stomach."
"You remember instructions," I told her, taking another careful breath as the moisture reached my tongue, "which makes one of us useful."
"You pushed me away from a car," she replied, returning the sponge before I could ask, "so your current job is disappointing."
The words came out much sharper than the careful hand still holding the cup. She set it down with deliberate care, keeping her injured palm turned away while dried blood remained beneath two fingernails.
"How long?" I asked, looking toward the visitor sticker because watching her expression felt intrusive.
"The accident happened yesterday afternoon," she said, sitting after checking the chair behind her, "your surgery ended around midnight."
"I meant you," I replied, tracing the date on her sticker before my focus drifted, "how long have you been here?"
Nina glanced toward the window, taking enough time that the answer became obvious. Her bag rested beneath the chair beside two empty coffee cups, while a folded visitor blanket sat unused across her knees.
"Most of it," she admitted, pressing her unwrapped fingers against the cup lid, "they sent me out during surgery, then the night nurse let me back after I stopped asking every ten minutes."
"You could have gone home," I said, hating the sentence as soon as it left because it sounded too close to an order.
"I know," she replied, giving me a tired look while her fingers left the lid, "that is why staying counts as a choice."
The correction landed without cruelty, leaving me unable to hide behind concern for her sleep. Nina looked exhausted because she had chosen an uncomfortable chair beside someone she barely knew. Turning that into a mistake would protect me from owing an honest response, though she had already noticed the attempt.
"Thank you," I said, letting the words remain simple despite every explanation forming behind them.
"Better," she replied, resting against the chair while some tension left her shoulders.
A nurse entered with a tablet before either of us could damage the moment. She checked the monitor, the dressing near my ribs, plus the amount collected inside a drain I refused to examine. Nina stood automatically, but the nurse motioned her back into the chair.
"Mr. Dameire, I am Ava," the nurse said, lowering the bed rail while she checked my name band, "can you tell me where you are?"
"Orison Central Hospital," I answered, moving my gaze toward Nina before the next question, "unless the parking changed careers."
"Good orientation," Ava replied, pressing two fingers near the bandage as I tried not to move, "you have three fractured ribs, a bruised lung, plus a repaired splenic tear."
She explained that the surgeon had controlled the bleeding without removing the organ, then listed breathing exercises designed by someone who hated comfort. My left hip carried deep bruising without any fracture, while walking would begin after the morning surgical review.
"His parents called twice," Nina said, unlocking my phone after showing Ava the screen, "they are overseas for work, so they asked me to wake them when he opened his eyes."
"You have my password," I said, remembering a promise made beneath ambulance lights.
"You gave it to the paramedic," she replied, holding the phone away while my mother called again, "I merely used my criminal journalism skills."
"Answer when you feel ready," Ava told me, raising the head of my bed one slow section at a time, "pain can climb during the movement."
The warning arrived before pressure tightened across my chest, forcing me to close my eyes until the bed stopped. Nina lowered the phone without answering, then waited until I looked at her again without anyone telling her to do it.
"Not yet," I said, hearing the call stop before another message appeared, "my mother will ask whether the surgeon used clean instruments."
"She asked me that already," Nina replied, rubbing her forehead as she unlocked the message, "then your father asked if the driver had insurance."
"That means they are frightened," I explained, watching her read the new message before guilt could fill the silence, "practical questions are our family affection language."
Nina handed me the phone only after placing it within my uninjured reach. Twenty-seven messages filled the screen, including six from Jake and one from Professor Lail. My completed essay sat inside the sent folder at exactly eleven forty-three.
"You submitted it," I said, opening the attachment to confirm she had not sent my unfinished notes by accident.
"I found the final file on your desktop," she replied, crossing one leg before wincing at the scrape beneath her jeans, "then Jake confirmed you were done pretending to edit it."
"You contacted Jake," I said, discovering that my life had developed a group chat during surgery.
"He called your phone fourteen times," she answered, pulling the blanket higher across her lap, "so I decided either he cared or wanted money."
The conversation should have embarrassed me, but Nina made the invasion sound ordinary rather than charitable. Jake had apparently arrived after midnight with my bag, argued about visiting rules, then left when she promised to send updates. The bag now sat inside the cabinet with my cracked laptop untouched.
"He stayed until security threatened him," she added, looking pleased when surprise escaped me, "your sample contains at least one friend."
"Jake calls everything a sample," I replied, setting the phone against my stomach when my arm tired, "I thought we were classmates who occasionally shared carbohydrates."
"He called you his best friend," Nina said, letting the statement settle while I stared at the blanket, "then he asked whether I was the blonde woman from your lecture notes."
I remembered a margin comment written during an argument Nina had with Professor Lail about protest photography. The note said, `Blonde woman has selected violence`, which had seemed funnier before she gained access to my files, sending heat across my face despite the hospital temperature.
"That note required context," I said, finding Nina's mouth pressed tight against a laugh.
"I did not read your lecture notes," she replied, failing to keep the laugh from her voice, "but now I know where to look."
The pain medication encouraged me to close my eyes, though sleeping through the conversation felt dangerous. Nina noticed the change, moving the phone onto the cabinet before I dropped it, then pausing her hand near mine without making contact.
"You can sleep," she said, checking the clock as she settled back, "the surgeon will come after rounds."
"You should sleep somewhere horizontal," I replied, looking at the red line pressed across her cheek, "or go home before your neck files charges."
"I will shower after the doctor speaks," she said, holding my stare before I could argue, "then I am coming back with actual clothes."
"You do not have to keep proving anything," I told her, choosing the sharper truth because gratitude alone felt incomplete.
Nina leaned forward, placing both feet beneath her while irritation brought color back into her face. She had probably spent the night hearing versions of that sentence from nurses, security, plus my parents. I still needed her to hear what I meant rather than defend what she had done.
"I am not accusing you of guilt," I said, lifting my right hand before she could answer, "I only do not want my injuries deciding your entire week."
"They decided yesterday," she replied, keeping her voice low as another cart passed the door, "today I am deciding for myself."
"Why?" I asked, unable to make the question gentler without making it dishonest.
Her gaze moved from my face toward the wrapped hand resting against her knee as she breathed once before answering. The pause mattered because Nina normally reached words before anyone else could find them.
"Because I watched you notice the car before anyone noticed you," she said, pressing her thumb against the bandage, "then you made a choice without checking whether I deserved it."
"You were standing in front of a car," I replied, letting my head rest farther into the pillow, "the qualification process seemed unnecessary."
"That," she said, pointing at me with her good hand while her expression tightened, "you keep making it smaller because admitting you were scared might make it real."
My first answer died before it reached my mouth, exposed as another joke even to me. The impact returned in pieces whenever I closed my eyes: the driver's face, Nina beneath my arm, plus the empty second before breathing failed. I had been terrified, though fear sounded embarrassingly personal when spoken aloud.
"I thought I was dying," I admitted, gripping the edge of the blanket while the monitor continued at the same pace, "then I worried my last request involved an essay."
Nina's anger left slowly, replaced by something that made looking away feel cowardly. She moved her hand across the mattress, stopping with several inches between our fingers so the remaining distance stayed mine to close.
"I thought you were dying too," she said, watching my hand instead of forcing the contact, "so I stayed where I could see you wake up."
I shifted my fingers across the sheet until they touched hers, avoiding the bandage. Nina turned her palm beneath mine, holding gently without turning the contact into another medical restraint or pretending it happened by accident.
The air above our hands changed while a translucent rectangle formed near the bed rail. Nina continued watching me, giving no sign that she could see the pale blue numbers. I read the first line twice before accepting that anesthesia had developed excellent typography.
[Confidence: 08/100]