Chapter 11
I woke up to silence, my hand throbbing before my eyes even fluttered open.
The bandage was tight around my wrist—too tight, maybe. But I hadn't dared adjust it since the doctor looked me over.
He had called it a mild sprain.
"It's a deep cut, and you likely strained your wrist when you twisted it back," he'd said. "Keep the bandage dry. No lifting. No typing. Just rest."
Right. Rest.
While I was happy to be getting some much needed relaxation time, I couldn't deny the fact that my thoughts were making me restless and telling on my peace of mind.
My apartment was still, lit by the soft gray glow slipping through the curtains. A bowl of untouched cereal sat on the coffee table. A bowl of cereal I had no memory of pouring.
What I did remember, though, was the burn. The snap of my voice. The look on Mr. Torres' face.
I sat up slowly in my bed, wincing at the ache as I adjusted my hand in my lap. My phone buzzed beside me. One new message.
