When I woke, the first thing I registered was the stinging.

It pulsed across my forehead in sharp, rhythmic beats, and when I tried to lift my hand to touch the source, I found myself tethered—an IV line running from my arm to a bag hanging beside the bed. The sight of it made my stomach lurch. How long had I been out?

Slowly, carefully, I touched my forehead. Bandages. Tight and medical, covering the spot where I had connected with the basin. The stinging was the wound beneath, protesting ...