Chapter 2

Dorian came every day. Never stayed more than twenty minutes, and half of those were on his phone. My parents came too—quick stops, long silences, eyes drifting toward the door the second Mia's name came up.

Putting on a show for Mia's sake had to be exhausting for all of them.

The nurses outside my door didn't know the room was only half soundproofed.

"—you see the husband? Guy hasn't spent one full hour in there all week."

"That's nothing. I heard Dr. Reeves wrote her a prescription for that imported anti-inflammatory on Monday. Girl in 412 had it in her IV by Tuesday morning."

"Wait. They rerouted the patient's own meds to the other room?"

"Husband signed off. Said she's tough, she'll be fine without it. Between you and me? That's not why they're holding it."

"What do you mean?"

A pause.

"Think about it. Same blood type, same family. The one in 412 just got a transplant. You really think they found her back after twenty years for nothing?"

"Don't say that out loud."

"I'm just saying."

I finished the crackers on my tray and drank the rest of my water. My body is mine.

Two weeks later they discharged me.

Mia came out through the main lobby. She was on her own two feet, standing in a patch of sunlight near the curb, and Dorian was leaning down to fix her scarf. She tilted her face up and laughed at something he said.

I came out through the side entrance with my right arm in a splint and one hand on the wall. The nurse carried my bag.

Two weeks ago Mia couldn't stand up without someone catching her elbow. I'd made that possible.

Dorian saw me and walked over. He didn't kiss my forehead or take my arm.

"Mia's got a lot to carry today. The SUV's full." He jerked his chin toward the far end of the lot. "Take the other car."

He didn't wait for an answer. He was already turning back to help Mia into the back seat.

The SUV's trunk and back seat were packed with gift boxes, flowers, a stack of folded hospital blankets with Mia's name pinned to them. Personal things from her room. No room for me and no pretending otherwise.

The "other car" was a gray sedan from the house fleet. The driver was someone I didn't recognize. He put my bag in the trunk without looking at me.

My phone buzzed before we pulled out of the lot.

Sorry about the car. Mia's still fragile, I can't leave her alone right now. You get it, right?

I looked at the message for a second.

I know.

I typed it and hit send. Might as well keep playing along. I wasn't going to be around much longer anyway.

The sedan got me home first.

The glass cabinet in the entryway was still there—the one my father had custom-built the year I moved in, for the little brass-and-basswood tower that was the first real thing I'd made after coming home to this house. The first thing I'd ever given them.

The tower was gone.

In its place was a framed photo of Mia holding the Grand Plaza nomination plaque. Centered. Level. The paint around the new nail was still clean.

Nobody was in the entryway to explain it to me. Nobody would have anyway.

I walked past the cabinet and went to find out where I was supposed to sleep.

They'd put me in the basement.

My clothes were folded in a plastic bin by the door. My books were stacked on a folding table. A space heater in the corner was already running, the way you'd turn one on for a dog.

I sat down on the edge of the cot and the last twelve hours finally caught up with me.

Last night, at the hospital, I'd woken up around three and found my mother asleep in the chair next to my bed.

There was a folded piece of paper in her hand. I slid it out carefully. Two pages, front and back, handwritten in the dim light. Discharge checklist. Follow-up dates. Foods to avoid the first month. A line near the bottom said room temperature water only, no ice. Her handwriting shook in places.

There was a fresh scrape on the back of her hand from the wooden armrest. She'd been dropping off and jerking awake all night.

Seven years ago, right after they'd found me, I hadn't been able to sleep in that house. I found out months later she used to sit outside my bedroom door until it got light. She'd looked embarrassed when I caught her, like she'd been doing something she wasn't supposed to. She never brought it up again.

Something in my chest shifted. I didn't want it to.

She stirred and opened her eyes. Took a second to remember where she was. Then she saw the list in my hand and reached for it.

"I didn't want to forget anything," she said, smoothing it on the blanket. She went through it line by line, twice.

I folded the list and put it in my pocket. Then I reached out and took her hand.

She squeezed back.

"Mom. Thank you."

"Don't thank me, baby. We're family." She started gathering her things. And then, the way you'd mention it was supposed to rain later—

"By the way—Mia needs the south-facing room while she's recovering. The light's better for healing. I had your things moved to the basement. Your father put a heater down there, so you won't be cold."

I was still holding her list.

She looked up at me.

"There's just one thing I need you to promise me, sweetheart."

I looked back at her.

"What is it?"