His hesitation was brief but enough to send a cold bolt of fear through me, different from the cooling of fever dreams or freezer lids. It was real, alive, coiling around my heart. “We just need to make sure of a few things,” he replied, voice level but eyes deeply concerned.
I nodded, though uncertainty gnawed at my insides like a persistent rat. When I got home, I held the note from school in both hands, a tiny scroll declaring me worthy of attention. Mom read it quickly, her eyes skimming as though it were a grocery list.
Her brow furrowed for a heartbeat, a flicker of emotion I hadn’t seen before—concern? Worry?—before settling back into neutrality. “Get your coat,” she said, an uncharacteristic tremor in her voice.
I obeyed, unsure if this was a new chapter or just a detour on the same story. Dad drove us to the hospital in silence, the hum of the engine a lullaby of sorts, lulling my anxiety into a temporary stupor. Felix was at a friend’s house, oblivious to the drama unfolding without him.
The hospital was a maze of sterile white walls and beeping machines, bustling with people whose lives intersected momentarily with ours. The doctor from school had called ahead, and within minutes I was whisked away for tests, poked and prodded by professionals who treated me like a real patient, not a child faking a cough to skip school. As I lay there, dozens of tubes and wires extending from my small frame, I realized how foreign this kind of attention felt.
It was like a spotlight burning into my skin, illuminating me in ways I didn’t know were possible. Hours slipped by, the hospital windows revealing a shifting tapestry of night. Mom never left the room.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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