Chapter 4

Dr. Peterson didn't give up.

He found Michael later, near the surgical lounge.

His voice was grave, more serious than I'd ever heard it from him.

"Michael, I just saw the hospital's critical admission list. Sarah's name is on it. Not as a visitor, Michael. As a patient. What's going on?"

Michael glanced at his phone, checking the date.

A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face.

It was my 18th birthday.

The 8th anniversary of our parents' death.

The day he always seemed to hate me most.

He exploded.

The sudden rage was terrifying, even to me, who had no body to tremble.

"She's doing this on purpose! To ruin today! Of all days!"

His voice echoed in the hallway.

"Tell her to get out! I don't want to see her! She's not welcome here!"

Dr. Peterson looked stunned.

"Michael, she's listed as critical. That means..."

"It means she's faking it!" Michael spat. "Like she always does! For attention! To make me feel guilty!"

He started pacing, agitated.

"Remember all those times she 'collapsed' at school? Always when I had something important. Always a cry for help that turned out to be nothing! A little dehydration, a mild panic attack! She'd be fine an hour later, after they pumped her full of fluids or some pill, before I could even be bothered to show up!"

I wanted to scream at him.

Those weren't faked.

Those were real.

The disease, taking hold.

The university clinic managing the episodes, giving me emergency medication, telling me to inform my guardian.

I tried.

I really tried.

I remembered the day I got the full diagnosis from the university health services, printed on their official letterhead.

The words swam before my eyes: *Terminal Autoimmune Disorder. Rapid Progression. Multi-Organ Impairment.*

I'd taken it to him, during one of his rare, begrudging visits to my dorm to drop off a check.

My hands shook as I held out the papers.

"Michael, please. You need to see this."

He'd glanced at the letterhead, then at me, his eyes filled with contempt.

Then he'd ripped it in half, then into quarters, letting the pieces flutter to the floor.

"Forging documents now, Sarah? Trying to be like Chloe? Desperate for sympathy?"

His words had cut deeper than any scalpel.

Now, my lifeless body, the one that had carried that disease, was on a gurney somewhere in this very hospital.

Organs harvested.

Waiting for transfer to the morgue.

And he was here, ranting about me faking it.

Dr. Peterson looked at Michael, his face etched with a deep, profound disappointment.

"You'll regret this, Michael. Deeply."

Michael just sneered.

"The only thing I'll regret is not getting Chloe recognized as my legal dependent sooner! She's the only family I care about."

He turned his back on Dr. Peterson and walked away.

Leaving me with the chilling finality of his words.