Over the past week, Roxy was getting stronger. Her physical body, fueled by actual nutrients and relentless medical care, was aggressively knitting itself back together.
A healthy, warm flush had replaced the terrifying, sallow gray of her skin. The deep, agonizing purple bruises around her wrists and ankles had faded into dull, yellowish-green shadows. She was no longer surviving on clear fluids and intravenous drips; she was eating solid food.
She pushed the plastic hospital tray away, the remnants of a dry turkey sandwich and a cup of apple juice entirely forgotten.
Roxy reached over and pulled the thin white blanket off her lap. She swung her legs over the edge of the mattress, planting her bare feet firmly on the cold floor. She didn't try to stand, her muscles still lacked the raw strength for that, but she sat up completely straight, her spine rigidly aligned.
