Lots and lots of doctors. They come into my hospital room, one after another, asking me the same questions. Do you have a headache? No. Are you dizzy? No. Do you think you fell and hit your head? No. Do you remember anything that happened? No. Are you sure? Yes. They write on their charts, making notes of the things I tell them. They take my blood pressure and listen to my heart. They do tests and tests and more tests. Scans in big machines that make loud noises and make me feel claustrophobic. Needles that suck my blood into vials, which are then whisked off to the lab. At first, I’m scared. I hate doctors, and I hate hospitals. I didn’t even want to come here, but Cam insisted. “Doctors aren’t going to be able to help me,” I told him a few hours ago. We were lying on the bed in his dad’s pool house, after Cam brought me in from the beach. “Whatever happened to me obviously isn’t medical.” “You don’t know that,” Cam said. He was holding me tightly in his arms, his hands stroking my hair.
