Chapter 4

The ambulance siren wailed, a counterpoint to the throbbing in my head.

We were stuck. A long line of cars, honking, decorated with balloons.

A celebration parade.

Dad's SUV was at the front, a homemade banner on its side: "Congrats Jessica – Future Leader!"

He was leaning out the window, yelling at the ambulance driver.

"Can't you see we have a procession here? Some people have actual achievements to celebrate!"

The paramedic in the back with me, a kind woman named Sarah, spoke into her radio, her voice tight. "ETA delayed due to civilian interference. Patient is critical."

My lungs burned. Every breath was a tiny, sharp knife.

Dr. Ramirez at the ER was blunt. "Severe hypoxia. Status asthmaticus. The delay in treatment... it caused significant lung damage, Emily. We're moving you to the ICU."

ICU. Wires, tubes, the constant beep of monitors.

Officer Peterson came by later. He looked tired.

"Your parents are on their way to the hospital. They... they didn't know how bad it was."

I just looked at him.

"Jessica told them you were being dramatic, that you had the key and just wanted to spoil her trip."

Of course she did.

"The window in the basement," he continued, his voice gentle. "It was sealed tight from the inside with fresh tape over the old newspapers. And the heat down there, even with the door open now... the boiler's malfunctioning, pushing out dangerous levels."

My SAT scores. My application deadlines. They were all dust now.

A few days later, a hesitant knock. My English teacher, Ms. Albright.

"Emily? Honey, are you awake?"

She looked shocked when she saw me.

"The university application portal... your early decision deadline is tomorrow. Your father said you hadn't submitted anything."

My parents. They hadn't even thought about it.

They finally arrived hours after Ms. Albright left.

Dad looked pale. Mom was crying silently.

They'd seen the basement. Officer Peterson had shown them the photos. The blocked vent. The scorching temperature readings.

He'd also shown them a short clip from his bodycam – me, blue-lipped and barely conscious, gasping by the coal chute.

The reality of what they'd done, what they'd allowed to happen, was starting to hit them.

"Emily... baby..." Dad started, his voice choked.

I turned my head away.

The monitors beeped, a steady rhythm in the sterile room.

When I finally regained enough strength to speak more than a few words, my voice was flat.

"Why?"

Mom sobbed. "We... we thought... Jessica said..."

"You always believe Jessica," I whispered.

They tried. Flowers I was allergic to. Chocolates I couldn't eat. Awkward, stilted apologies.

I refused to look at them, refused to speak.

The damage was done. Not just to my lungs.