There was no gentle nudge into consciousness, not for me. The last thing I remembered was lightning bolts and ice spears. Panicked, I attempted to block whatever weapon was aiming to kill me.

“Whoa! Calm down! You’re alive. You’re fine!”

“No!” I cried out, slapping and smacking at the hands attempting to hold me in place. “No!”

“Betha, you’re in the hospital. You’re safe.” Eventually, the deep, even tones made their way to my brain, and I opened my eyes and gasped.

“Ottawa.”

“Ottawa?”

“In Canada,” the nurse went on. “You’ve been here for twenty-four hours. We’re getting ready to transfer you to Boston.”

“Transfer?” I asked. Apparently, all I could do now was repeat words. “I don’t want to go to Boston. I want to go back—” Go back where?

“Am I alone? Is there anyone else with me?” Were my husbands here?

“You mean the pilot?” The nurse shook her head. “No. I’m sorry. He was killed in the crash. You’re something of a celebrity now. Out in the wild for seventy-two hours. Nearly frozen solid. But you’re fine now.”

Seventy-two hours. Was that it? It felt like a lifetime. I met three men—three men who turned into giants and married me. Well. If I was going to be technical, Freya married me to the giants—but wait. Hold up.

“How hard did I hit my head?” I touched my forehead, running my fingers along my skin and down to my ear.

“Hard enough to be unconscious when we found you until now.” The door opened and she peeked over her shoulder. “Oh good. The doctor’s here. She can answer your questions.”

Stepping to the side to make room, a small woman with dark hair introduced herself. “I’m Dr. Lamonte. Let’s take a look at you.”

Words and questions stuck in my throat. I did as she asked, turned my head to the side, followed the small light she shone into my eyes. Answered questions about the year, my name, birthday. All the things I should.

Until she asked me what I remembered.

“I don’t know,” I answered. I moved my arm tentatively; it was a little sore but not bad. I examined my hands, looking for cuts, bruises, broken nails. Anything.

“Short-term memory loss is not uncommon,” she soothed. “You may not ever remember details of the crash or what happened. You had a severe concussion and brain swelling.”

“Brain swelling?”

“Yes,” Dr. Lamonte replied. “You’re lucky to be alive. Stranded out in the cold. Wrapped around that camera there. Even unconscious, you didn’t want to let it go. You had it twisted around your chest and arm.”

My camera. Swallowing hard, I stared at the black bag she pointed to. I hadn’t thought of it after Grim and Raynor brought me to the cabin, and I always thought of it. Always kept it with me.

“You found me in the plane?”

The doctor nodded. “Yes. Do you remember anything?”

Slowly, I shook my head, a small ache beginning behind my eyes. “I thought… I saw…”

Lifting one smooth eyebrow, Dr. Lamonte waited. “It’s not uncommon for hallucinations to occur when your brain or spinal cord have become inflamed. Not to mention the lack of food and water. You may never know how you survived that time, but the important thing is—you survived. Your family and friends are waiting for you. Your employer is even sending the medivac to bring you home.”

“Home.” I was back to repeating. It was all in my head. A hallucination born out of starvation and dehydration and hitting my head falling from the fucking sky. There was no Grim, or Raynor, or Fenris. I’d made them up.

They were never real.

Chest hurting, I pressed the heel of my hand against it, rubbing roughly. My throat tightened, and I took a deep breath. I couldn’t cry over people who never existed. I couldn’t mourn something that had never happened.

Oh God. But it felt real. It hurt like it was real.

Dr. Lamonte’s eyes caught mine, and I fought for control.

“Emotional dysregulation is common after a brain injury, Betha. Please don’t be embarrassed.”

I nodded quickly, swallowing hard. “When do I leave?”

“Soon as the helicopter lands. There’ll be a doctor on board.”

“Okay,” I whispered, sinking back into the pillow. “Thanks.”

“Take a nap,” the doctor directed. “Let your body heal.”

“Okay,” I repeated, closing my eyes. But it wasn’t my body that needed to heal. It was my heart.

Days passed in a blur. I went home, was admitted to Brigham and Women’s Hospital, met my parents as they wheeled me into my room, let my mother pray over me, and generally imitated a slug.

Jeb turned up at my bedside with a cameraman, taking photos of me while I grimaced and gave a thumbs-up. I was alive. No thanks to him and his cut-rate puddle jumper. There wasn’t much wrong with me, except for having made up three husbands who turned into giants, so there was no reason for me to take up a bed.

I was released from the hospital and went back to my parents’. My apartment had never been more than a way station between assignments, and I didn’t care enough to fight with Ma or Dad about where I should sleep.

That was how I found myself in my old twin bed every night, rehashing details of events that never happened. I lingered over faces which never existed and encounters I’d never had.

I was like Dorothy returned from Oz, alone and having lived through an adventure no one else could understand.

“You’re very mopey,” Ma observed when I joined her and Dad at dinner.

“I’m healing,” I answered.

“You’re a solid girl, Betha.” Stabbing a fork in my direction, her gaze took in my oversized sweatshirt and sweatpants. These weren’t my clothes. They were Dad’s, and the truth was, they weren’t that roomy. “I’m sure you’re fine by now. Your dad and I were discussing it, and it’s time for you to move back into your apartment. Jeb is calling every day—”

“Which you’d know if you answered the phone,” Dad mumbled.

“I’m tired. I need my sleep.” Sleep was the place where my fantasies were the clearest. It got harder and harder to wake up. Their faces were fresh in my mind. Daytime meant the end of fantasies, and the knowledge that I’d made them up.

“You need a job,” Dad reiterated. “To pay your rent.”

“You know what? If you want me to go so bad, why don’t I just leave now?” I retorted, not believing they actually wanted me to leave. They wanted to light a fire under my ass, fine. Admittedly, I had been down, and I’d been here a week, mostly asleep. Certainly not any help.

“Finish eating,” my mother commanded, pointing a fork at the stringy beef sitting in slowly congealing gravy on my plate.

I sat. Bluff called.

“You can leave after dinner.”