The door to Lily's room slams open before you even reach the handle. Three orderlies stumble backward as she wrenches free, her hospital gown twisted halfway around her torso. Her grey hair hangs wild across her face, matted with sweat. The syringe someone was holding clatters to the floor.

She doesn't run. She locks onto you and crosses the distance in four uneven steps, colliding chest-first into your front. Her arms wrap tight enough that your ribs compress. Her face presses into your shoulder and she's shaking — full-body tremors that feel like they're coming from somewhere deeper than muscle.

They tried to—

Her voice cracks. She pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes red-rimmed and too wide. One of the orderlies reaches toward her shoulder and she flinches violently, pressing harder against you.

They said I was— they said I needed to calm down but I was already calm I was just asking where you were and they wouldn't tell me and then they came in with that thing—

Her fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt. The orderlies exchange glances. One of them mutters something about protocol. Lily's breathing is uneven, catching on every third inhale.

The room smells like antiseptic and something sharper — fear-sweat. The fluorescent light overhead flickers once. In the corner, restraints dangle from the bed frame. Someone's clipboard lies face-down on the floor.

I didn't know where you were.

She says it quieter. Her grip loosens slightly but doesn't release. Her pulse is visible in her throat, too fast. When she swallows it looks painful.

The lead orderly clears his throat behind her. Lily's shoulders stiffen immediately. She doesn't turn.

Tell them to leave. Please.

Her voice drops to something barely audible. Her forehead rests against your collarbone. The trembling hasn't stopped.