If it had been possible to burrow into the thin hospital blankets and hide from the world entirely, Bindhi would have done it. She ate and drank mechanically, more because her body demanded it than out of a desire. She spoke in monosyllabic grunts when the doctors came to talk to her. She had no desire to unburden herself to a lot of well-meaning people who frankly, wouldn’t understand and who were more than likely to shut her up in the nut-hatchery if she tried to tell them she was magic. So instead, she grunted and turned onto her side, drawing the blankets up over her head.

Only then, with that tiny bit of protection would she let herself cry. Apparently her blood alcohol level had been such that when she’d been carted in, covered in her own blood and with a gashed arm, they’d started the detoxing even as they gave her new blood. And at the moment, she wasn’t sure which hurt worse. The forced sobering up or her arm, which, even as she stared at the long, slowly healing scar, throbbed with pain every time her heart beat.

And that wasn’t even counting the way the nurses hovered. Like they expected her to try again, maybe to try and choke herself with her own I.V. cord. The not so subtle checks through the course of the day. The hints that maybe, just maybe, it would be for the best if she voluntarily signed herself into the custody of the psych ward. Just until they could help her to get a handle on whatever it was that was troubling her so.

“Not a chance in hell,” she whispered. She wasn’t crazy. She was fine. Okay, so she wasn’t handling some of the recent changes to her life all that well. But she was fine. She didn’t need help from these doctors. She didn’t need counseling or therapy. And she sure as s**t didn’t need or want to talk about her mother. The head doc had nearly creamed his ******** pants in joy when he’d found out that she’d died when Bindhi was small. And how close they’d been before the accident.

Shaking her head slightly, the blonde burrowed more deeply into the bed, determined to keep from being harassed by the well-meaning. Though that thought was quickly trailed by another. Who on earth had found her and called the paramedics before she’d had the chance to fully slip away? Her muddled memories kept insisting that her mother had saved her. Except those memories had snatches of traits that her mother had never exhibited. Like Orah’s dark hair or Laney’s eyes. Had they found her? She struggled to remember. If it was them, how had they found her? Maybe she’d ask them if she ever healed up enough physically to get out of here. She was so tired of the smell of her own sweat adn the disinfectant they used on the floors in the hallway just outside her door. She was tired of the nurses’ voices. Tired of the endless blood tests and rounds of medication. She just wanted to go home and sleep forever.

The tears began to come more freely, soaking into the pillow. She was vaguely aware of a nurse opening the door and the sound of people coming in.

“Visitors, Bindhi.”