911, what is your emergency?”
The operator’s voice was steady in a way that made me want to cry.
It sounded like a world where rules still existed.
“My brother is attacking me,” I gasped.
Aaron’s face changed before I finished the sentence.
He grabbed for my wrist, and the phone flew from my hand, skidding under the coffee table with the line still open.
The operator kept speaking.
I heard her ask if I could get away.
I heard my father laugh again, then say clearly enough for the room and the phone to catch it, “She always does this for attention.”
That was the moment fear became something colder.
They were not panicking because they had already chosen the story.
By morning, I would be unstable.
Aaron would be the overwhelmed brother trying to calm me down.
Douglas would be the tired father who had suffered through my episodes for years.
They had used that script in kitchens, doctors’ offices, school meetings, and family
