Free Bend by Kivrin Wilson

of symptoms to puzzle out, but to them, I’m the person they’re trusting to figure out what’s wrong and to know how to fix it.
    It’s a responsibility I don’t take lightly. But no matter how difficult it gets, and no matter the moments that I question my sanity for willingly choosing this career, I know I was made for this. I’m doing what I’m meant to be doing. Or at least, I’m on the path to it, and I don’t plan on letting anything lead me astray.
    Not even Mia, regardless of how much she seems to need me. Like when she almost cuts off her thumb and has no one else to take her home from the hospital. Which I will do with no grumbling and no resentment.
    Because it’s Mia. And because that’s what I do.

 
    M y head feels like a brick, and my eyelids might literally be glued together for how incapable I am of opening them. I can hear the familiar whirring-and-clicking sound of my ceiling fan above me, and my pillow and blankets are definitely my own.
    So I’m in my bedroom. Beyond that I have no idea what’s going on.
    There’s a dull ache in my left hand, and I’m catching a faint, sour whiff of vomit. Last night’s events flash in my brain like a series of disjointed snapshots. I remember leaving the hospital with Jay, who then took me to the pharmacy. The minute they handed over that little orange bottle, I swallowed one of the horse pills of hydrocodone that Jay’s irrepressibly cheerful third-year-resident colleague Yamada prescribed me, because the local anesthetic he had used had worked so well that I was dreading that numbness wearing off.
    Next Jay went through a fast-food drive-thru, and I was so hungry at that point that I scarfed down three soft tacos along with a whole bottle of water in just a couple of minutes while he steered his truck down the streetlamp-lit roads toward my apartment.
    After we got there is when things get kind of fuzzy. I vaguely recall feeling like I got hit by a train. Did Jay really carry me up the stairs to my apartment? Or am I confusing a daydream for a real memory? I can still feel him scooping me up into his arms and not once faltering or slowing down as he climbs the steps. I remember resting my head on his shoulder and wanting to press my face against his neck.
    If that was just a fantasy, it’s the most vivid one I’ve ever conjured.
    I’m not sure what happened after that. Clearly I made it to bed somehow.
    I turn over on my side and pry open my eyes, which start stinging as I’m squinting and blinking against the sunlight. There on my nightstand next to a bottle of water sits my small orange, white-lidded pill container. I reach out and grab it.
    Then I roll over onto my back and study the label. Looks like the standard dosage of hydrocodone with acetaminophen. Which was apparently still too much for me to handle? I never would’ve expected to have that kind of reaction to it, but I suppose there wouldn’t be a warning about those kinds of side effects if it didn’t happen to someone.
    “You should eat something before you take one of those,” comes a deep baritone next to me.
    My heart jumps into my throat, and a yelp escapes me. The bottle drops down onto my comforter as I spin my head toward the voice.
    It’s Jay. In my bed. He’s lying underneath the blankets wearing a white T-shirt, his head on a pillow, and his hair is sleep-rumpled. While I’m gawking at him, he rubs his eyes with his thumb and index finger.
    “What are you doing?” I squeak out. Jay is in my bed. But why? What happened last night? Am I wearing clothes? Yeah, I’ve got underwear and a T-shirt on. The same stuff I wore last night. So only my yoga pants were removed. Did he take them off? Why the fuck can’t I remember?
    He throws out his hands, like he’s saying, Isn’t it obvious? “Waking up?”
    My mind goes blank with confusion. “What are you doing in my bed?”
    “You asked me— No, you begged me to stay.”
    “I did?” I swallow hard. My mouth feels