OP Absorption

The ceiling tiles became Fin's best friends during the next few hours. Thirty-two squares in total—he'd counted them twice—with one water stain in the corner that looked vaguely like a turtle. The beeping machines next to his bed provided the soundtrack to his misery, each ping reminding him he was still alive, despite feeling like death warmed over.

When the door finally creaked open, Fin turned his head slightly, wincing at the pain that shot through his neck. A doctor strode in, clipboard in hand, looking tired but professional in her white coat. Her name tag read "Dr. Amara," and she wore thin-rimmed glasses that caught the harsh hospital lights.

"Mr. Carver, yes?" she asked, glancing from her clipboard to his battered face. "How are we feeling?"

"Like I got hit by a truck. Then the truck backed up and hit me again," he croaked, his throat dry and scratchy.

Dr. Amara's lips twitched into what might have been a smile. "Well, that's pretty accurate, considering your injuries." She flipped through her papers. "Three broken ribs, fractured right clavicle, dislocated shoulder, broken nose, multiple lacerations, severe bruising, and a concussion. Frankly, Mr. Carver, you're lucky to be alive."

"Lucky," Fin repeated, the word tasting bitter in his mouth. "That's me. Walking good luck charm."

"The human body is surprisingly resilient," she continued, checking the monitors. "You should make a full recovery in about six weeks, with proper rest and care."

"Six weeks?" Fin tried to sit up but immediately regretted it as pain lanced through his chest. "I can't—I have to be at the Guild tomorrow. 8 AM sharp."

The doctor raised an eyebrow. "I'm afraid that's not happening. You can barely move."

"But I just joined. They'll kick me out if I don't show," he protested, panic rising in his throat.

"They'll have to understand. I'll provide medical documentation." She made a note on her clipboard, then cleared her throat. "Now, about your bill..."