Dr. Grant froze. The practiced, reassuring smile on her face fractured, replaced by a profound, chilling stillness.
I had been brought in after passing out at school from severe dehydration and a fever that had been cooking my brain for days. The school nurse had dialed 911 when I had violently flinched at the mere sound of a ringing telephone, begging the staff not to let “Mom and Dad” come get me. They had assumed I was in the grips of a delirious fever dream.
But staring into Dr. Grant’s eyes, I was horrifyingly lucid.
“Why would you want that, sweetheart?” Melissa asked, her voice dropping to a cautious whisper. She pulled a blue vinyl chair closer to the rails of my bed.
My bottom lip quivered against my will. “Because if they know I’m alive,” I stammered, the words tasting like ash in my mouth, “they’ll come take me home.”
The atmosphere in the room crystallized. A male nurse, Daniel Ruiz, who had been checking my vitals, turned his head slowly. The casual professionalism in his posture evaporated. “Did someone hurt you, Ava?” he asked, his tone thick with dread.
