Has a heart attack

“You entered cardiac arrest shortly after losing consciousness,” he went on severely. “Panacea was almost unable to resuscitate you, although I’m not sure I understood the exact nature of the difficulty.”

“I…what?”

Cardiac arrest? What? How?

I tried to wrap my brain around it, but it was like he was speaking in technobabble: I recognized the words, even knew what they meant, but I couldn’t comprehend how they came together to form a sentence.

Armsmaster leaned forward and pinned me with a dark-eyed stare. “You almost died,” he enunciated clearly.

After a moment, he let out a breath through his nose and sat back in his chair.

“Although I don’t quite understand how,” he continued, “you put your body under so much stress that your heart shut down. First aid administered by Miss Militia and the efforts of Panacea managed to keep you alive, but I’ve been told it was a very close thing.”

He shifted a little in his seat.

“How are you feeling?” he asked awkwardly.

I shifted a little myself, wincing as new shoots of pain accompanied the motion.

“Sore,” I settled for.

“I see,” he said, frowning. “Originally, we put you on a standard hospital bed. However, after the first day, at the suggestion of Tattletale, corroborated by Panacea, we sent a team to your house to bring in your own personal mattress, on the understanding that it would help accelerate your recovery.”

Wait.

“This is my bed? From my room at home?”

The one I’d enchanted, so that three hours of sleep was just as restful as a full eight hours would be on a regular mattress? This was that bed?

He nodded.

“Yes. At that time, your father had already contacted the police to file a missing persons report, and it was deemed unavoidable —”

But I’d been doing the mental math as he spoke, only half paying attention to the rest, and shot up as I realized exactly how long I’d been asleep.

“I’ve been sleeping for almost three weeks!?” I shrieked.