I wake up to the fleeting sensation of soft fingers fluttering over my chest, like a faint breeze. Like a ghost. My mind is chasing after the touch, but it's retreating into a fog. I can't hold it much longer— the gentle warmth of her hands. It's evaporating, but I fight to maintain whatever grip I have on this moment.

My eyes open to search for her. Big mistake.

The only thing keeping my chest warm is a white cotton shirt. America's fingers rest motionless against her sides, right where they were when I drifted into dreams of better days. I'd give anything for those hands to ball up in fists and sock me in the jaw. Anything for her foot to kick me off the bed. I don't care what she does with the movement, but the eerie stillness is driving me mad. Anything but this seemingly empty shell.

America's nurses know they need not bother to check in on her during the night. I'm always there. But by eight o'clock, the first uniformed staff member will be knocking softly on the door. They adjust her position to prevent bedsores. I've been warned repeatedly about the dangers of anoxia: the suffocation of a patient caused by lack of oxygen, the concern that led surgeons to make a small incision in America's trachea in an operation known as a tracheostomy, and a term I'd never heard of two months ago. Recent developments have led me to learn more medical terms than I'd ever cared to know. The nurses move America's limbs through daily exercises to prevent her muscles from degenerating and massage her skin to avoid blood clotting. They pump nutrition into her bloodstream through an IV. A feeding tube had been suggested, but I refused. She was still America, still my Queen, and I couldn't stand the thought of her looking so feeble with a tube down her throat.

The clock on the wall tells me the nurse will arrive in fifteen minutes. I've overslept. The dream— it's so hard to wake up when the haunt of reality is crouched, waiting, on the cusp of morning.

And yet I can hardly sleep.

I don't like being in the room with the nurses. They are all kind; my remaining logic reassures me of it. However, that knowledgde doesn't stop me from feeling like America is a lab rat under a microscope. It's all so dehumanizing. I made the mistake of staying once, not wanting to leave her after a particularly lonesome and sleepless night. I saw them lift her arms, one at a time, rotating them slowly in artificial exercise. The tube spitting proteins into her wrist as a woman hung a new plastic bag on a metal hook. The rising angle of her bed to prevent fluids from pooling in her lungs.

Oh God. I shake involuntarily. It hurt, because she couldn't do any of it herself. It hurt to think she might not come back.

Since then, I make a point of leaving when the nurses arrive. For my sake and theirs.

I use the remaining fifteen minutes of privacy to recline against pillows that smell like disinfectant.

When the door opens, I furrow my brow. I'm not greeted by the pressed blue and white dress of a palace nurse, but a pearly lab coat. My head physician, Dr. Hendrix, enters. He took over after Dr. Ashlar retired. His smile is friendly and his bow professional.

I try to turn the edge of my grimace into a grin. I'm not really sure if it works, and I'm not really sure if I care.

"Thought I might find you here, Your Majesty," He sits in the seat next to the bed, the seat closest to me. I garner enough effort to prop my back against the bed's steel headboard.

"Lucky guess." My sarcasm has become more frequent recently. Some sort of coping mechanism, I'm told.

Dr. Hendrix's smile twitches. He clears his throat. "If you have the time, I think we should chat. I won't keep you long."

I don't want to talk. I don't want him to tell me about more procedures and risks and probabilities. I just want my dreams to come back, and stay. But a painful itch in my brain murmurs nonsense like 'kingly duty' and 'responsibility'. I stifle my retaliations, like slapping a hand over a spurting fountain, and nod for him to continue.

"As I'm sure you are aware, Her Majesty Queen America has been comatose for sixty-five days."

The words make me twitch.

His voice, all business, dips a bit lower as he bows his head. "My deepest sympathies, Your Majesty. Sincerely, this is a most…" His gaze flickers to the floor, "A most unfortunate turn of events. My team and I are doing everything within our abilities to provide the utmost care."

I nod again, just nod, because I don't think he can feel the emptiness I'm feeling at the words.

"With that said, I must be honest with you and present you with all available options."

This actually earns a reaction from me. "Options?"

Dr. Hendrix has blue eyes rimmed by the small wrinkles that come naturally with being in his mid-sixties. They tighten as he speaks. "Yes. After such a prolonged period of unconsciousness, it is suggested to reconsider our treatment." He pauses, letting the words settle.

I know where this is going. I've been anticipating it for weeks, and yet I can feel my body revolting. The air in my chest feels trapped. My muscles seize up involuntarily, everything is tense like cement was poured through my veins. I've gone as stiff as America. Only the comparison makes me flinch.

I have to swallow twice before words will come. My tongue had gone too dry to work. "Proceed."

Regret is already filling his blue eyes and I can't take it. I bend my knees so I can rest my elbows on them, my face falling unceremoniously into my hands. My neck is too tired to hold up my head. I want to collapse back into the bed, but he's still here with more words I don't want to hear, and I'm trying to maintain some boundary of professionalism (though it keeps fading farther and farther away).

"Years of studies in the past have shown us that patients can survive for decades in a comatose state—still completely alive, but never actually breaching into consciousness. In these cases, it is often left to the patient's family to decide on a course of action. They consider if it's better for the patient to continue living in a vegetative state or to let them go." Dr. Hendrix has been staring purposefully at a spot on the wall behind me, but now his eyes drift back to mine to clarify. "I'm not saying that one choice is better than the other. That's not my place. However, it is my job to make all possibilities known. That's what I'm doing, Your Majesty. That's all. I just need to tell you all of your options so you can make an informed decision." His hands are folded neatly in his lap over his finely ironed slacks. Waiting.

I know I'm supposed to say something. Even if it's not a final decision on the matter, he needs confirmation that I've registered his words. But I have nothing. Nothing. Just the shake of my hands pressed over my eyes. I try holding my breath, but my pulse is zipping so fast that I'm sucking for air again in seconds.

I can see Dr. Hendrix's look of alarm through my fingers, but choose to ignore it. The shaking is getting worse and I wonder if it's exaggerated by my insomnia. Maybe dehydration is making it worse, because now that I think about it, I don't remember the last time I drank water. The only liquid I've consumed in the past twenty-four hours was a mug of black coffee to keep me from slumping over during a meeting. Or perhaps my blood sugar has dropped too low, because nothing the maids have brought me on silver platters has appealed to my revolting stomach lately. I don't know. I just feel the shaking, shaking, as it enraptures my arms, too. I wrap them around me in the hopes that it will stop.

Dr. Hendrix is rising from his chair. "Your Majesty?"

But it doesn't cease. I can feel the cold quivers coursing uncontrollably through my shoulder blades, like I was dumped into an icy ocean with a brick tied around my feet. It's seeping into my blood, taking over.

I don't know. I don't know. I don't know.

My breath is coming faster, like the air I inhale never quite reaches my lungs so I have to gasp for another gulp. It never fills me up, though. Each one is too shallow. Not enough.

Then there are hands on my shoulders, but they are faint and a sense of déjà vu grips me drowsily. Where was I? This morning? There were feathery fingers radiating warmth. I thought… America…

There's a wild dizziness thumping behind my eyes, making it hard to keep my thoughts from drifting. They break up before I can put them together.

America's soft fingers…

Thump.

Options? Yes, options.

Thump.

Collapsing. Shaking. Air.

Thump.

And then the dream is coming back, the one I lost to the foggy tendrils of morning memory. I can see it so much clearer now as the haze fades away, or fades in. I'm not really sure, but she's here now, and smiling, and it doesn't seem to matter either way when she looks at me like that. I'm lying back against the pillows, but this time they smile like fabric softener instead of cleaning supplies. This time, the sheets are a creamy beige like the ones in my room. America's leaning over me, her red curls falling like curtains from her face and around my own. One lock is unruly, flopping over my nose, and she's laughing as she drags it away and brushes my cheek nimbly.

"Good morning," She half-sings. Her curls tickle the sides of my face and the light breaking between them casts a sleepy shadow over her features. Or maybe I'm just not awake yet.

"It is, isn't it?" My thumb finds her cheek. "A very good morning, indeed." I wrap my free hand around her waist, pulling her against me. She slumps her head to my chest and when she hair falls like a sheet over my face, I comb it back with my fingers.

She hums. I can feel the song vibrating against me.

"I've missed you," I whisper.

America turns her head, resting her chin on my sternum so I have perfect view of her scrunched-up nose. "Missed me?" She laughs playfully, the confusion melting away. "Where did I go?"

I frown, because I don't know. I can't remember. But there's a need for her to stay. There's a niggling fear that if I don't hold onto her now, she will float away.

America ignores the concern and lays her head back down so I only see the crown of her hair. I place a lingering kiss there. It's perfectly innocent, but feels much more intimate. Like every touch must be more cherished than normal.

Her hands, once folded into the sheets on either side of me, rise to my chest. Her fingers dance, up to my shoulders then down to my ribs and trailing to my arms. Delicate fingers…

Tracing.

Trolling.

Traipsing.


For I minute, I honestly believe the dream could be real, because the pillows do smell like fabric softener and the sheets are that familiar tint of tan. But the lack of warmth in the bed is quickly apparent. I snap to reality. The headache pulsing near the surface of my mind is a brutal wake-up call, but it doesn't take me long to recognize the figure sifting through papers and standing at the foot of my bed.

"Dr. Hendrix?"

"Ah," He smiles, looking up from the work with relief. "It is a pleasure to see you awake, Your Majesty. I'm afraid our last meeting ended rather unfavorably." There's a spark of humor in his eyes, but also a straining sadness.

I squint. "Would you be so kind as to remind me?" I remember our talk in America's infirmary room—a bit too well, actually— but then it fades into a fuzzy blur. The headache certainly doesn't help things.

"Of course." He shuffles his papers together neatly and taps them twice on the frame of my bed to align them. "I'm afraid our discussion put you in a state of shock and you suffered from a panic attack, Your Majesty. There was no lasting harm done, although you should take some time to recuperate. You may experience some nausea or head pain, but it will only be temporary."

"Head pain," I nod, then wince at the jolting. It feels like my brain is tied to a tetherball pole, and I just gave it a firm whack. "I can confirm that symptom."

The doctor walks to a table on the side of the room, but my drooping eyes are too lazy to follow him. It's not until he appears beside me with a glass of water that I realize he was retrieving pills. "Just two for now," He holds them out in his palm. "You can have another dose in four hours. Hopefully, it will subside completely after the second round."

I gratefully accept the pills in my own hands and throw them back with a gulp of the water, willing the relief to be instant. It isn't.

The doctor lingers. His cheerful demeanor seems weighted down. "I would like to apologize, Your Majesty." He clears his throat with a nervous cough. "I did not mean to upset you so when we spoke earlier. I understand that this is not an easy time for you, and I by no means intend to add any burdens."

Not an easy time. I want to snort. Yeah, I'd say things have been a bit trying lately. Dr. Hendrix is not the cause of the ongoing avalanche that is my life, though, so I try to give the most kingly nod I can muster. "I greatly appreciate your concern. You needn't feel any responsibility for the," I search for a word, but decide to lazily use what he's already spoken, "the burdens occurring as of late."

The poor man looks so relieved. I wish it was that easy to please the rest of Illѐa. This whole king job would be much less stressful.

"Yes, well then," He's giving a bobbing bow as he clears away his things. "I will leave you to rest. Do not hesitate to send for me, and remember, two more pills in four hours." And then he's slipping out the door and leaving me alone in the enormous king's chambers, in the too-big bed that feels blaringly empty as I stretch my arm over America's empty spot and finger the fabric of the comforter she picked out.

It isn't ten minutes before there's a knock on the door, and I wonder if Dr. Hendrix left something behind.

"Come in!" I call loudly enough to be heard on the other side of the thick door. I sit up against a layered stack of pillows, grateful that the beating in my head has started to fade.

Instead of Doctor Hendrix's lab coat, I'm met with Aspen's tailored uniform. I'm alert quicker than I thought possible, already running through scenarios before words can even come.

"Have you-"

"Yes," He cuts me off, but I really don't care. His words are more important than mine right now. "We found them. They're on a small base near a farming town in Northern Zuni. Our scouts located the camp nearly four hours ago and are currently identifying soft spots that will be our best targets for an infiltration when we send a rescue mission. The base is approximately seven hours away by car, only one by jet. We believe a ground operation would best suit the needs of the mission, considering the risk we put on any possible explosives harming the hostages."
I don't interrupt because every word is a spark of hope, and I've been running low on that particular virtue lately. When Aspen's done, I'm grinning.

"Yes, yes whatever you need. Just say the word, just ask. Okay?" He nods. "Thank you," I tell him. I'm repeating the words because it feels like the only good news I've heard in years. It feels like rain in a hopeless drought. "Thank you, thank you, thank you…"


Chapter update! Yay! So this takes place about a week after the last chapter, just to give you all a better perspective. Also, for those curious, Zuni is supposedly around where New Mexico and Arizona are located (or at least that's what the Selection Wiki page told me). Hey, guess what? This is the longest chapter so far! Hip hip horray for staying up late before my first day back to classes to post this bad boy. ;) Please drop me a review, because you guys are seriously sunshine and dandelions and all that happy stuff that makes me smile. God bless! And for all you students out there starting up again like me, have a great year!

~SpaceNut