The hospital tent glowed dimly under its string of harsh white lights, the air steeped in antiseptic so strong it felt like it could disinfect thoughts. Machines hummed and beeped in tired, monotonous rhythms, as if even they were exhausted from the night's drama. The canvas walls shivered every now and then when the breeze slipped through the seams, sending shadows skating across the partitions like nervous ghosts.
Eliana Bennett Vexley lay propped against starched white pillows, her slight frame nearly swallowed by the narrow hospital bed. An IV line trailed from her arm, coiled and transparent, a quiet reminder that she was still anchored to this world—however shakily. Her warm brown skin, usually alive with confidence and quiet fire, had dulled to a fragile pallor after the push, the fall, and the pain that followed. Her long, curly black hair spilled across the sheets in wild, inky waves, as though it had rebelled against gravity out of solidarity with her.
