"Don't let her out!" a voice screamed as a blade flashed.
The blade hit flesh. Hot pain spiked through my shoulder. I tasted metal and red.
"Get her away from the window!" a nurse shouted. "Secure the door!"
"Code three! Code three!" someone else yelled.
A man in the corner laughed and swung a chair. Patients shoved at the nurses. Sheets tore. The fluorescent lights shook.
"Stay with me!" a doctor barked over the noise. He pressed a hand to my wound and cursed. "Hold that pressure."
"Move!" a patient screamed, hair wild, and lunged. Metal flashed again. A nurse shoved him back, crying as she fought.
"Who brought radios in here?" a voice snapped. Through the riot came distant music—soft strings, a wedding march, canned and bright. Someone's phone streamed a ceremony from a rooftop hundreds of blocks away. The sound didn't fit the ward. It made my mouth taste worse.
My shirt was soaked. I coughed. Blood ran down my fingers as if it had a mind of its own.
"Tell me your name," the doctor said. His voice was steady. "Cora. Hold on, Cora."
"Don't leave," the nurse whispered and slammed a door against a patient forcing himself through. The lock didn't hold long.
A man in a padded jacket shoved through, shouting orders in a tone that belonged to security guards. He pointed and barked. "Over there! With the shank!"
They made a space around me. Someone tied a tourniquet
