“Mom.”

She turned, and for half a second her face lit up. Iris. Then the light went out and panic replaced it. She got up fast, wincing on the rebuilt knee, and grabbed my forearms with a bird-boned grip.

“Oh, honey, you can’t just—” she whispered, eyes going to the upstairs windows. “They don’t like surprises.”

Chapter 2 — The Pathology

My mother held me hard, then pushed me away like I was contraband that would set off an alarm. Her wrists were far too thin. Her knuckles were split and weeping from constant contact with harsh detergent.

The last time I held these hands they smelled like peppermint lotion and potting soil. Now they smelled like bleach.

I slowed my own heart rate and slid into the ICU version of myself. On a trauma ward you don’t scream at a hemorrhage. You apply a tourniquet.