The chart at the end of the bed had a stack of papers clipped inside it.
I could see the corner of one page whenever the air from the vent lifted it slightly.
Hospital intake form.
Medication list.
Monitoring notes.
I did not know then how important those papers would become.
At the time, all I knew was that my sister was getting bored with my survival.
Tessa stepped closer to the machine.
The monitor beeped once.
Then again.
Then again.
Each sound was small, steady, and strangely comforting.
A machine believed me.
A machine agreed that something had happened to my body.
A machine did not roll its eyes.
“That sound is annoying,” Tessa said.
My mother sighed faintly, like she agreed but did not want to get involved.
Tessa looked at the wires, then at me.
“You know they only keep all this on you because you act helpless.”
