Chapter 242
Restlessness settles into me like a second pulse.
It starts subtle. A tightness in my calves. A need to move that does not have a direction attached to it. I pace the length of the cabin after sunset, counting steps without meaning to. Window to door. Door to sink. Sink to window. I stop only when the pattern irritates me enough to break it, then start again anyway.
I do not sit.
Sitting feels like giving something permission.
I skip dinner without noticing until my stomach cramps hard enough to demand attention. I drink water instead. Too much of it. The ache dulls but does not leave. Hunger is easier to manage than whatever is clawing at my ribs.
I shower once in the afternoon because I feel disconnected from my own skin. The water runs hotter than usual, steam fogging the mirror until I cannot see my reflection at all. I stay longer than necessary, head tipped forward, palms flat against the tile, breathing slow and deliberate like I am trying to convince my body nothing is wrong.
It does not believe me.
By evening, the feeling is back. Worse. Like my bones are buzzing, like there is energy in me with nowhere to go. It crawls under my skin and settles behind my eyes, a pressure that refuses to release. I try sitting on the edge of the bed, hands braced on my knees, breathing slow and counted. It does nothing. The restlessness just changes shape, coiling tighter instead of loosening.
I shower again. Cooler this time. Sharp enough to make me gasp when it hits my shoulders. I stand there longer than necessary, letting the water drum against my back until my skin prickles and my teeth chatter. I need the shock of it. I need the reminder that I am here. That I am solid. That the floor under my feet exists whether I am needed or not.
When I step out, the mirror catches me off guard. My face looks wrong. Too tight. Too alert. Like I am bracing for impact that never comes. I turn away from it and change clothes, then change again ten minutes later because the first set feels wrong against my skin. I eat nothing. I pace more, footsteps wearing invisible grooves into the floor.
By the time there is a knock at the door, I am halfway through my third circuit of the living space, heart racing for no reason I am willing to name. My pulse is in my throat. My hands feel clumsy, disconnected.
I open it too fast.
Sally stands on the porch, brows drawn together, eyes already scanning me for damage the way medics do before they ask questions. She takes one look at my face and exhales sharply, like she just confirmed something she had been afraid of.
“How long has it been,” she asks, stepping inside without waiting for an answer.
“Since what?”
“Since you slept,” she says. “Do not make me ask twice.”
I shut the door and lean my back against it, the solid weight of it grounding me for half a second. “I slept last night.”
She crosses her arms. “You closed your eyes does not count.”
I push off the door and move toward the kitchen out of habit, drawn to something I
can touch, something ordinary. Sally follows me without asking, like she always
does when she knows something is wrong and plans to see it through.
“You eat today,” she asks.
“Coffee.”
Her jaw tightens. “That is not an answer.”
“I was not hungry.”
“You are lying,” she says calmly. “To me or to yourself, I am not sure yet.”
I reach for a glass and fill it with water I do not want, the faucet too loud in the quiet room. My hands are shaking enough that some of it sloshes over the rim and spills onto the counter.
Sally notices. Of course she does.
She does not comment on it. That makes it worse.
“You are spiraling,” she says. “Quietly. You think if you do it gently, no one will notice.”
“I am still functioning.”
“So does a machine until it burns out,” she snaps, then immediately softens. “I am scared, Savannah.”
That gets my attention.
“Of what.”
“Of watching you disappear again,” she says. “Of you carrying the weight so well no one realizes it is crushing you.”
I turn away, stare at the wall where a map used to hang.
“I do not know how to put it down,” I admit.
“That is not what you are doing,” Sally says. “You are pretending it is not there.”
Silence stretches between us. Not empty. Loaded.
I feel the words pressing against my teeth. They have been there for days, maybe longer.
“I do not know who I am,” I say slowly, “without responsibility.”
Sally does not interrupt.
“I know how to fix things,” I continue. “I know how to mediate ar absorb and decide and carry know how to be useful. But when tam not needed, when things move without me, it feels like I am… unanchored.”
Sally sits at the table. “You are allowed to exist without earning it.” “That is not how survival works.”
She looks at me sharply. “Survival is not a role. It is a state.”
I shake my head. “You do not understand.”
“I understand exactly,” she says. “I just refuse to let you turn your trauma into a job description.”
I sink into the chair across from her before my legs give out. My hands twist together
in my lap.
“I am scared,” I say. The words taste unfamiliar. “If I stop being necessary, I will stop mattering.”
Sally leans forward. “That is a lie your nervous system learned because it kept you alive once.”
I close my eyes.
“When was the last time you rested without guilt,” she asks.
I do not answer.
“That is what I thought,” she says gently.
We sit there for a long time. The cabin creaks as night settles fully. Eventually Sally stands.
“You are eating something,” she says. “Soup. Crackers. I do not care. And you are sleeping tonight.”
“I do not think I can.”
“You can,” she replies. “And if you wake up, you will wake up. That is allowed too.”
She squeezes my shoulder before leaving. “Do not make yourself vanish because the world learned how to stand.”
That night, sleep comes hard and sharp, dragging me under without permission.
The dream is the war.
But it is wrong.
I am on the edge of the field, not in
it. The ground is torn and scarred smoke drifting low, but am not holding a weapon I am not issuing orders. I am standing still
Wolves move past me. Fast. Focused. They know where they are going.
I open my mouth to shout a warning that is already outdated.
No one looks back.
They adapt without me. They cover each other. They survive.
I feel panic rise, hot and choking. I try to step forward and cannot. My feet are
rooted to the ground.
I wake gasping, sheets twisted around my legs, heart hammering like I have been
running.
It takes minutes to convince myself I am safe. That the cabin walls are solid. That no
one is dying because I am not moving.
I sit on the edge of the bed, shaking.
A decision is forming. I can feel it.
Not clear yet. Not shaped. Just pressure building behind my ribs.
demanding change without
explaining how.
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I do not know what comes next.
But I know I cannot keep carrying this weight the same way.
Not forever.