Celine knew three things before she opened her eyes.
One: she was supposed to be dead. Two: her lungs still burned like she'd swallowed half the tank. Three: someone was trying very hard to make her forget the first two.
The light hurt. White ceiling tiles, fluorescent hum, that specific kind of quiet that only happened in hospitals after visiting hours. She tried to sit up. Her body didn't cooperate. Everything felt wrong—too light, too slow, like she was moving underwater still.