I finally wake up—for the I-don't-know-what time today. The light in the room's gone golden now, slanting in through the window like late afternoon's trying to make an entrance. My throat feels less like sandpaper. I'm not shivering anymore. Just … fatigued. A little dizzy, like my head's floating slightly above my shoulders, but not in a terrifying way.
I sit up slowly. The blanket slips off my shoulders and I blink against the blur. My limbs ache, but I can walk. Probably. I test it out, wobbling to the bathroom with the caution of someone crossing an ice rink in socks. But I make it. I rinse my face with cold water. Stare at my pale reflection. My hair's a mess. My eyes are puffy. I look like I've survived a tragic opera, but I'm standing.
When I shuffle back out, Elliot is still here.
He's curled in the armchair, half-asleep, legs stretched out like he owns the floor. He stirs when I move.
"You okay?" he asks, blinking blearily.
