In the Making

St. John didn’t know why she was there, in that brightly lit place. She was naked, laid out flat on her back on the freezing exam table like a corpse prepped for an autopsy.

Her vision blurred and brightened, and blurred again. She blinked furiously trying to clear the fog. Her right side throbbed, matching the cadence of her hammering heart. She tried moving her right arm, seeking out the place where it hurt.

Pain lanced through her as her fingers stumbled upon a crudely stitched wound. She tried...