Hushed Willows You haven't lived til you've been to the Grand Canyon

The girl once known as Ophelia had been meant to be a healer, before the fire. She'd been trained for it, instructed faithfully in all the methods of prevention and treatment known to her father. That girl would have known how to react now; she would have clicked her tongue sympathetically, a methodical mind already identifying each of the injuries set before her. Contusions, lacerations, concussion, fractured ribs and tibia, the telltale signs of shock settling in to a body stressed well beyond its limits. She would have known what to do.
But Reverie was not that girl anymore, and that broken body was her own, and this time there was no saving herself.
This time, when she woke alone to the sound of sobbing somewhere in the background, she remembered nothing of how she'd come to be here. She did not know that her husband was out there, searching for help even now. She knew only pain.
What began as a gasp of startled agony quickly rose into sobs and then shrieks. Alone; she was alone. Abandoned. Broken. Dying, and it hurt, it hurt so much. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. She couldn't, she couldn't, she couldn't — and Blossom — ? Boone — and it hurt and he was gone he was gone he was gone gone gone —
The darkness swallowed her again.