Seventy-Two Hours

I press fingers to my temples, nails biting flesh. A hiss — not my own. The lights flare, then dim, and there's a voice. Not mine. Too young. Crying. I lurch toward the sound, knees buckling. The floor is cold. Too cold. My hands find something wet, sticky. Blood? No — the sheets are white. Clean. The voice fades. My head throbs. 72. 71. The numbers blur.