Originals.
One for eight. One for nine. One for ten. Every envelope stamped, returned, or marked undeliverable.
He placed them on the blanket one at a time, careful not to touch my IV line.
“I didn’t know if you wanted these now,” he said. “But I didn’t want her to be the only one who kept things from you.”
The card for my twelfth birthday had a twenty-dollar bill still taped inside.
The tape had yellowed.
I stared at it until the numbers blurred.
Daniel looked away, giving me the dignity of not being watched.
That night, Ms. Reed came back with a temporary safety plan. I could be discharged to Daniel when the surgeon cleared me. Hospital records would document delayed care. The social worker would file a report. Because I was eighteen, I could choose my emergency contact.
I changed it before dinner.
Mom called eleven times.
Greg called twice.
Samantha texted once.
Are you seriously making Mom cry over this?
I looked at the message for a long time.
Then I set the phone facedown.
At 7:38 p.m., Daniel helped me sip water through a straw. His hand trembled so badly that a few drops landed on the blanket.
“Sorry,” he said.
I shook my head.
The room was dimmer by then. The monitor lights blinked green. Rain started ticking against the window, soft and steady, and the hospital air felt cold against the parts of my arms not covered by the blanket.
On the rolling tray, the custody papers sat beside the Best Buy receipt Tyler had printed from the security office.
Two stacks of evidence.
