In the hallway, a different paramedic pulls me aside. “Where’s your father?”
“He left.”
“When?”
“Not long. He went out the back.”
The paramedic exchanges a look with his partner. He writes something on a clipboard.
They wheel Mom out. I follow. Axel follows. We climb into the ambulance, and the doors slam shut.
The beeps are steady. The medic works over her, pressing, injecting, checking. I count the beeps. One, two, three. I make bargains with the air, with God, with anything that might be listening.Let her live, and I’ll be better. I’ll be perfect. I’ll be good. I promise.
My hand slips into my pocket. The pill that fell from her hand still there, pressed into my palm. I don’t know why I kept it. Evidence. Proof. A piece of the story that doesn’t fit.
The hospital waiting room hums. Vending machine, fluorescent lights that tremble and buzz. I hold a cup of coffee that’s gone cold. I don’t drink it.
Axel sits beside me, his cheek still red from where Dad hit him. He hasn’t said a word since we left the house.
The doctor steps out. He shakes his head.
The world clicks to silent and never fully unclicks.
A social worker arrives. Then a police officer. They ask questions I can barely hear. Where’s your father. What did she take. Who gave her the pills.
I tell them the truth. Axel tries to answer, but his voice breaks, and he can’t finish.
They let us leave hours later. A social worker drives us home. The house is dark. Empty. Dad’s truck is gone.
Inside, the milk has dried on the floor, sticky and sour. The pill bottles are still on the counter. The couch cushion is crooked where Dad shoved his hand underneath.
Axel goes to his room and closes the door.
I lock myself in the bathroom. The tile is cracked, grout stained yellow. I open my palm and study the pill under the harsh white light. There’s an imprint code stamped into the surface—letters and numbers, tiny and precise.
I will learn every name for poison. I will memorize every code, every clinic, every lie. I will never let it touch what’s mine again.
Control. That’s the only thing that matters now.
I close my fist around the pill until the edges cut my skin, a thin line of red across my palm.
Some nights freeze you so hard you don’t thaw for years.
This is one of them.
2
Lexi
Ifold the last of my shirts into the suitcase, pressing them flat so the zipper won’t fight me. The house is small enough that I can hear her humming something old and churchy, the kind of tune that makes the walls feel older than they are.
“Lexi, honey.” Grandma’s voice drifts in before she does, soft-edged but firm. She appears in the doorway with a mug in each hand, white hospital socks on her feet. “You eat?”
“Not hungry yet.”
She sets a mug on the dresser anyway. Black coffee, no sugar. She knows.
We don’t talk while I pack. She folds a pair of my jeans that I’ve already folded, refolding them her way, corners sharper. Her hands shake just a little. They always do anyway.
