32

I FEEL ABOUT FIVE YEARS OLD AGAIN. MY MOTHER IS TUCKING me into bed and I should be embarrassed about it, but . . .

“Hey. Just try to get some decent rest tonight, okay? We’re headed back to Dr. Wah’s first thing in the morning so she can reassess this cold of yours.”

“It’s probably just allergies, Mom. The guy on the news tonight said the pollen count is”— my case isn’t helped when my protests get interrupted by a coughing fit that burns my lungs, and my mother’s eyes sharpen as she watches my chest cave in on my inhales—“off the charts,” I finish weakly.

“Nothing’s ‘just’ when you have a compromised immune system, sweetness.” She sighs and tucks the blanket around my chin. “Do you need anything? More water? Want me to run a white noise app on your phone to help you fall asleep?”

I shake my head. Falling asleep is not going to be a problem. I can barely keep my eyes open as it is. As far as colds or allergies or whatever go, this one has me knocked on my ass. I’ve missed the past two days of school, including our first graduation rehearsal, which sucks. Not just because that actually sounded fun, but because the gossip mill is starting to go into overdrive. Sibby stopped by earlier with the news that the “Save Amelia” chant went up twice as the seniors practiced their line formation for filing in and out of the Fieldhouse.

I can’t even.

“I’m fine,” I insist.

“How about we let Dr. Wah decide what is and isn’t anything to worry about, huh?” Mom says.

She perches on the edge of my bed and rubs my arm through the blanket before leaning over to kiss my forehead.

Like I said, five years old.

Except I can’t lie; it’s not the worst.

I jerk awake.

“Shhh. It’s okay, Sunshine,” Dad whispers. “I’m just trying to prop you up a little more to help some of the coughing.”

Coughing. As soon as he says the word, my chest rattles and I have another fit of it. I feel like utter crap.

“What time is it?” I ask when I can speak again.

Dad tucks a second pillow under my head and helps me adjust. “Middle of the night—go back to sleep.” He leans closer, his breath tickling my cheek. “Love you like fireworks, baby.”

I’m halfway asleep already. “Love you, Daddy.”

“Sunshine?” Dad’s voice is tunneling through a thick fog. I try to roll away from it, but even that slight movement makes my spleen ache with raw tenderness and my blanket is a straitjacket.

Not my blanket. My chest.

Breathe, I order myself.

Can’t. Hurts.

The words drift closer, edged in haze. “I wish I could let you keep sleeping—I know you were up half the night, but Mom got you an appointment first thing with Dr. Wah.”

Shapes. Haze. Snap of shade. Wince of light.

Breathe.

Can’t. Hurts.

“Hey. Am I gonna have to tug you out from—”

Cool fingers. Clammy cheek.

“NATALIE!!”