The drive to the Children’s Hospital drains me of every bit of residual energy that hasn’t already been sun-sapped. Once in the darkened room back inside the Emergency Department, I find no relief. Lying on the hospital bed, my lariat is strangling me. I struggle to unloop it, but my skin stings. I refuse to ask for help. My parents are outside in the hall with Auntie Ruth, dissecting my accomplice. Finally, I am free of the necklace’s looping strands and can focus on eavesdropping as they replay everything they think they know about Josh.

“That Boy is teaching her to ignore her limits: the coffee shop. The poke place. And now this,” Dad says, ticking off Josh’s so-called transgressions. “Which might be fine if she was totally healthy, but …”

That but. Its logical conclusions slay me in a million different ways. But I’m not healthy. But I’m not normal. Therefore, I can never hope to have a healthy, normal relationship.

“Isn’t testing limits a good thing? Yes, she’s got a condition, but she’s got to live, too,” Auntie Ruth argues.

“Live? Did you see her? She could barely walk,” Mom says. “And her skin …”

As much as I will myself to get out of the hospital cot, to join their conversation, to minimize whatever consequences are going to fall upon me, my muscles revolt. I stay under the weight of warm sheets and my guilt. However bad I was feeling, Josh was probably feeling ten times worse. How many times did he ask if my seat belt was buckled as if he could protect me from harm? I want to text him, but I have no idea where my phone is. Probably confiscated like my freedom.

Surprise, surprise, Dr. Anderson walks into my hospital room. My entourage follows behind. He looks insanely pleased, not to see me again, but Auntie Ruth.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” Dr. Anderson enthuses, dimpling at her.

For the first time in the entire history of matchmaking, Mom isn’t issuing invitations to Souper Bowl Sunday. Instead, she looks annoyed that a man is hitting on Auntie Ruth. She attacks with questions: “What is the highest dosage of antihistamines that you can give her? Does she need steroids? Can you prevent blisters?”

After answering Mom—a lot, perhaps, no—Dr. Anderson turns his attention to me and frowns. “Viola, it was quick thinking to throw the blanket over the sunroof.”

“Josh did that,” I whisper.

“You’ll have to remember next time that the snow reflects the light. Let’s get you something to take the inflammation down.”

“That’s it? That’s all you can do for her?” Dad asks.

“It might be time for you to consider more aggressive treatments,” Dr. Anderson tells me after reviewing my chart. “Photochemotherapy could be helpful.”

“The research says the benefits are just temporary,” I mumble. “Not worth it.”

Dr. Anderson sits on the wheeled stool and scoots toward me. “I’m afraid your condition is a lot more pronounced than we first thought. I know this is hard to hear, and I wish I could tell you otherwise,” he says with a heavy sigh, “but I think you need to let your body recover. Stay inside. Then, if you absolutely have to go out, try to keep it at night, or at dawn and dusk. Start with no more than five minutes or so. And get a lot more aggressive with the techniques we shared with you a few weeks ago, like always using a sun-blocking umbrella. And if it’s really sunny outside, even consider using an umbrella at home since even with the film on them, UV light still makes it through windows.”

“Umbrella,” Mom echoes, but thankfully she doesn’t say I told you so.

“And finally,” Dr. Anderson says, “you might want to consider homeschooling. At least for the time being.”

“That’s a good idea,” says Dad.

Horrified, I sit up. “But my friends, my bake sales, my college apps …”

In the imaginary theater in my head, the curtains rise. And … action!

THE EMERGENCY FAMILY MEETING

A Play in One Painfully Short Act

by

Lee & Li Productions,

a subsidiary of Lee & Li Communications

MOM

Dr. Anderson’s right. Plus, given everything—the school’s lackadaisical implementation of UV-protective window-ware …

DAD

Not to mention, how you have to take notes on your Mac in class.

MOM

And frankly—and I hate to say this—but, Viola, your irresponsibility with the safe boundaries that we’ve put in place for your own good—I—

DAD

We.

MOM

We agree with Dr. Anderson. You’ll be better off finishing senior year at home as much as it hurts us to do this.

DR. ANDERSON

(not understanding that his role is to be a silent observer, not a complicit enabler)

You should stay inside and in the dark as much as possible.

MOM & DAD

(power nodding)

See?

ME

(dumbfounded, rendered speechless; then, in a voice that plumbs every punctuation mark known in the English language)

What. What? What!

DAD

(waving his hands as if he’s at the podium of a contentious news conference)

Think of this as a hybrid solution. Some Liberty, some homeschool, some Khan Academy, and some Auntie Ruth. I’m sure she’d be happy to work with you on math and science a couple of days a week.

MOM

Plus, do you know how much time is wasted at school each day? If you’re really productive—really efficient—you should be done by eleven, assuming a six a.m. start.

DAD

Think of everything you can do with all your free time.

MOM

(with the air of a queen bestowing a stay of execution)

You’ll have time to do whatever you want.

ME

(BLACKOUT)

(END OF SCENE)

…

One small step to homeschool for senior year, one short leap to homeschool for college. Was that even possible? My parents and Dr. Anderson exchange a meaningful look, one that is resigned and resolved, one that says there will be no safe place left for me to live.