Marcie

I suck in a glass-sharp breath, and I’m back on the orange couch.

The orange couch? I don’t know an orange couch. I’ve never had an orange couch.

“Hey, I’m here,” someone says soothingly. “I’ve got you.”

I don’t know that voice. Or do I? A thousand voices echo in my head, and I know it’s one of them, but none of the names and times match together anymore. I’m a jigsaw puzzle with all the pieces shaken apart.

Shaking. I am shaking. I was shaking.

“The women took Ryan to the hospital,” I mutter.

“Okay,” someone says. “That makes sense.”

That makes sense. Of course it does.

“They...