Chapter 2

The painkillers did nothing.

By Friday night, the pain had rolled me right off the bed. I don't remember crawling to the bathroom. All I remember is how cold the tiles were, and throwing up for what felt like hours until there was nothing left to come up.

The fever had soaked my T-shirt through. My phone sat on the edge of the sink, less than a foot away.

I propped myself up on my elbows and inched forward across the floor. One of my fingernails cracked against the tile and left a smear of blood behind.

My body was giving out, and my mind started drifting to places it shouldn't have gone.

One day last semester, it was pouring rain and the city bus was right there at the stop. I didn't get on. I walked forty minutes home in the downpour and put the dollar-fifty I saved into Soren's skate fund. By the time I got through the door I was drenched head to toe. Mom looked at me once and said, "Go change. Don't drip all over the floor — Soren's therapist is coming."

The school choir needed everyone to buy matching costumes. Eighty dollars. I asked Mom if she could cover it. She was hunched over Soren's budget for the next season and didn't even look up. "It's not like you have to be in it. Just quit. The money you save is enough for two pairs of Soren's training socks."

The next day I told the teacher I was dropping out. She asked why. I said I'd lost interest.

Another time, I asked Dad if I could get a new set of paints. My old ones had dried up. Dad flipped through his wallet. "Let's wait until Soren's season is over."

That season ended. The next one started. Nobody ever brought up the paints again.

I finally reached the phone. The screen lit up, showing the only family photo we had as the wallpaper. Soren front and center, Mom and Dad on either side with their arms around him. I was at the far edge, barely a shoulder in the frame.

I hit Mom's speed dial.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Call failed.

I tried again. Same thing.

I swiped for the emergency dial, but my vision had gone to mush and my fingers were slick with sweat. I kept jabbing at the screen, missing every time. I tried to text Mom instead — got a few letters in before my hand slid off the glass.

The phone slipped out of my grip and hit the tile. The screen went dark.

I don't know how long after that.

I thought I saw Mom push open the bathroom door, holding a cake with eighteen candles on it. She crouched down next to me, smiling. Happy birthday, Wren. Dad stood behind her, stroking my hair.

I wanted to blow out the candles. But I couldn't lift my hand anymore.

Then there was nothing.

It took me a while to realize I was dead. I was floating just below the bathroom ceiling, looking down at a girl curled up on the floor, her cheek pressed to the tile, eyes half open, completely still.

That was me.

Strange. I always thought dying would hurt, but the truth is, I couldn't feel anything at all.

I wanted to find Mom. And just like that, I was at the arena, two hundred miles away.

Soren was standing at center ice with a gold medal around his neck. Mom rushed down from the stands and threw her arms around him, crying so hard her makeup ran. Dad was next to them filming the whole thing, his hands trembling.

I drifted over to Mom. Her purse was hanging open, and I could see her phone stuffed inside — the screen glowing with the airplane mode icon.

So every call I made, she never got a single one.

A few skating parents gathered around to congratulate them. Mom dabbed at her tears and said, "Thank you, really. You have no idea what our family has sacrificed for this day. His father works two jobs, and I put my own retirement savings into it. But it's worth it. Every penny."

One parent said, "You're an incredible mother."

"Oh, stop," Mom waved her hand with a laugh. "Anyone with a kid this gifted would do exactly the same."

"Is he your only child?" someone else asked.

"There's an older one. A girl." Mom paused for a beat. "She's low-maintenance. No trouble at all."

Soren was busy replying to congratulations on his phone without looking up. "Mom, that coach says he wants to sign me tomorrow."

"Of course, sweetheart. You deserve the very best."

They packed up to leave. As Mom shoved the medal case into her bag, she glanced at her phone and frowned.

"Wren hasn't sent a single message. Her brother just won Nationals, and she can't even be bothered to say congratulations?"

Dad was already dragging the suitcase toward the exit. "We'll deal with her when we get home. I bet she's curled up in bed right now playing sick."

They walked out of the arena laughing and talking.

I followed behind them. I didn't know what their faces would look like when they got home and found me.