Chapter 5

Chelsea's POV

Dad saw the application form and immediately snatched it away. He asked, "She lives in this city. Why does she need to stay at school?"

Ms. Garcia didn't argue with him. She simply placed Natara's assessment on the table.

She explained, "Chelsea will need consistent care while recovering. The school can arrange a temporary room next to the infirmary, and I'm willing to serve as her on-campus contact, but the decision has to be made with her consent."

Everyone turned to look at me. Mom's expression softened. She walked over to my bed and gently straightened the edge of my blanket.

"Chelly, I know you've suffered a lot. When Yara finishes her training, I'll come back and stay with you. Let's not take this issue to the school just yet, all right?"

She hadn't called me that in six months.

The next second, Yara clutched her chest and said she couldn't breathe. Mom immediately let go of my blanket, turned around, and reached for Yara's inhaler.

I picked up the pen and signed my name on the application form.

…

"Who gave you permission to apply to stay at school? Withdraw the application," Dad ordered.

He locked both my phone and schoolbag inside a cabinet, then slipped the key into his suit pocket.

He said that I had only just been resuscitated and that my judgment was still impaired. The school shouldn't have allowed me to sign anything without my parents present.

Mom stood beside Yara's bed and didn't stop him.

Natara suggested waiting until my attending doctor and the school could conduct a joint assessment.

But Dad rejected the suggestion outright. "This is a family matter. She's always been difficult. Whenever things don't go her way, she threatens to leave home. There's no way she would actually give up this family. She's just trying to scare us."

I leaned back against the headboard and said nothing more.

When my heart stopped in the early hours of the morning, I had spent seven minutes in the resuscitation room. Those seven minutes hadn't been enough to make him believe I could really die, let alone convince him that I might actually leave.

The doctor came in to inform us that the bleeding in my abdominal cavity had been brought under control, but my blood-clotting levels were still dangerously abnormal. I would need to remain in the hospital for at least another five days.

Dad flipped through the itemized bill. He asked, "Can't she be transferred to a general ward? The daily rates here are too expensive."

"She's already in a general ward."

"Then can she be discharged early? Someone at home can look after her."

Natara glared at Mom and asked, "Who will be looking after her 24/7?"

Mom pursed her lips. "I have to take my younger daughter for an assessment this afternoon. Ever since she was upset last night, she's been complaining of chest tightness. The doctor said it could be anxiety."

"Chelsea just went into cardiac arrest."

"I know." Mom clutched Yara's coat. "But Yara needs me too. Chelsea has always been so independent. There are nurses looking after her in the hospital, aren't there?"

Yara lowered her head. Finally, she untangled the silver chain from her hair and placed the medical tag on my bedside table. "Chelsea, I'm sorry. I didn't know you were really this sick."

I looked at the engraving on the back of the tag. My name, my diagnosis, and my parents' two phone numbers were there.

For 12 years, I had treated it as a lifelong guarantee. It told any stranger that if they called either number, someone would come for me.

But last night, a stranger had called them. And no one had shown up.

I picked up the silver tag and said to the social worker, "Could you please find me a pair of pliers?"

Mom's expression shifted. She asked, "What are you doing?"

"Changing the emergency contacts."

"You can't change something that's been engraved! Wait until you're discharged and take it to a shop to have it redone. Don't make a fuss in the hospital."

"There's no need to have it redone."

The nurse found a pair of small pliers. I gripped the connecting ring above the tag and bent it hard. The metal scraped against itself with a shrill sound.

Mom stepped forward and tried to stop me. "Chelsea, put that down! I gave that tag to you!"

"Not anymore," I retorted. The connecting ring snapped, and the silver tag fell into my palm.

I put the chain on Yara's commemorative album. The chain could still go with her dress. The silver tag would no longer be anyone's ornament.

Then, I used a black marker to cross out the two phone numbers on the back.