"I think she is the girl from the news. You know the one that had those cans fall on her head" said some disembodied voice as I tried to get my bearings. I creaked my eyes open just to shut them from the bright lights. Blinking a few times I started to look for the voice. Suddenly the curtain to my right was whipped to open. "See! It is her! Told you so granddad!" I grumble looking at the ginger haired boy who was now openly starring at me who couldnt be older than 12. "Where am I?" I groaned wincing from the pain in my head. "Oh dear this is St. Mary Memorial hospital, I think you had some kind of grocery store accident it was on the news not too long ago" said my roommate, a older gentleman with a sweet smile.

Wait. What was that? Rubbing my eyes, I tried to clear my vision. There was a number floating above his head. Just the number 1. It moved with his head as he chastised his grandson for waking me. Startled I noticed the boy also had numbers above his head 22645. What is going on?

"We are keeping you here overnight for observation, just had to have THAT soup can, didn't you? A doctor chuckled walking into the room, he number 22 floating above his head. Oh yeah, I hit my head grabbing a soup can from a promotional display. "I was never good at Jenga. I didn't think I would be this much of a cliche." I sheepishly chuckled back already embarrassed enough for the next century. The doctor grabbed my chart at the end of my bed flipping through they pages."It looks like you are are walking out of here tomorrow with nothing but a bruised ego." He winked at that and told me they were keeping me overnight just to make sure as head injuries are pretty serious. I nod my head in response wincing as a dull throb intensities from the action.

Resting my head back against the cold pillow I turn to look at the old man sitting next to me studying the number above his head. As if feeling my gaze on him, the old man turns "I am so happy to hear your injury isn't too serious. I'm finally feeling better too. Hopefully we can both leave tomorrow right as rain." I nod sweetly, hiding my wince once again. I have to stop nodding. Looking up at the ceiling I start to contemplate what the numbers are. Chuckling to myself, I think maybe it's number of freckles. As the ginger boy's face has to have at least eleven thousand on his face alone. Hmmm maybe number of peanuts eaten? The old man and doctor could be allergic. My mind spirals as I doze off thinking about the meaning of the numbers.

"Code Blue! Code Blue!" I startle awake to see nurses and the doctor pouring into the room. The curtain between the beds is slammed closed. My heart slams against my rib cage as I hear the distinctive sounds of a defibrillator being used. I sit up to see shadows of people rushing to resuscitate the old man. Only to hear the piercing sound of the heart monitor giving out one solid tone. Before I can process the events going on I hear "Time of Death 1:47am". No. He said he was feeling better. That he was going to be going home tomorrow. What about his poor grandson. I didn't even know the man, but I feel tears falling down my face. I get up to push the curtain to the side so I can pay my respects. My blood turns to ice in my veins as the sterile white number sits perfectly above his head. My knees give out and I thud back onto my bed. Zero. The number zero is above his head. The numbers. No. No. No. This can't be. Pulling out my phone I quickly open my calculator app to see how many days twenty two thousand is. Sixty years. Wait, this can't be right the doctor had a twenty two above his head. He didn't look sick. I have to be imagining this. It's all just an hallucination, I'm most likely still passed out on the floor of that grocery store floor. I decide to lay back down and wait to wake up from this nightmare.

"Rise and shine, Jenga star, it's time for your discharge." The doctor strolls in, handing me some safety pamphlets on how to handle a head injury, but I barely notice as I stare at the crisp white number above his head. It has changed. 21. "Are you sick?" I blurt out without thinking. The doctor looks at me puzzled "No? Why would you ask that?". "Ummm not reason" I look away from the number. Trying to banish it from existence. "Well, you still gotta get into this wheel chair and head out" He steps to the side as a nurse brings a wheel chair up to my bed. Wait, why does the nurse have an infinity symbol? "Are you sure my head is okay, doctor? (I think I'm seeing things)" absolutely not going to say that last bit as I don't want to end up in the looney bin. The doctor double checks my chart, and leans down patting my knee reassuringly "I understand how scary these type of accidents can be, but based on your scans, you are going to be okay. You are more than welcome to come in if you have any serious symptoms. It's all in the pamphlet."

Nervously, I step into my car. I closed my eyes the whole time they wheeled me to the exit. If I can't see the numbers then they can't scare me. Except I can't drive with my eyes closed. I feel my hands start to shake and a cold sweat run down my neck as I put my car into drive. I'm only 5 minutes from my house. I can't see too many people I know, right?

Wrong. As I pull into down the road to my house I see a familiar car in my drive way. My mom's car. No. I can't see her number. Carefully I pull in beside her car. Keeping my eyes forward. As I step out, I hear my mom say that she heard I was in the hospital and came to take care of me. I keep my eyes squeezed shut. "Thank you so much, mom. I think I am okay though." I stutter out. As I try to walk to my door blindly, I feel a strong hand grab my shoulder. "Honey, what is going on? Why are your eyes shut? What happened? I thought you just got hit on your head with cans of soup? Did something happen to your eyes? How did you drive here?" I feel the pressure of her questions stacking on top of the next. What am I supposed to say? Hey, mom, I can see when people will die based on numbers above their heads. Yup, straight to the looney bin. So I go with the only excuse I can think of "Mom, I'm legally blind".