The plastic tube under my nose leaked a thin stream of cold oxygen that smelled of dry metal. On the bedside table sat my father’s old silver wristwatch, its steady ticking masked by the quiet hum of the room.
My sister Tessa stood by the window, her winter coat still zipped to her chin. She did not look at the purple bruises on my arms, only at the blue medical chart hanging from the foot of my bed.
“The doctor says you have a concussion, Nora,” she said. Her voice had that sharp, mocking drawl she used whenever she wanted to sound like she was doing me a favor.
I lay still under the thin white sheet, my right index finger tapping a slow, nervous beat against my thigh. The hospital daily rate of fifteen hundred dollars was posted on the back of the door, a small white card that seemed to mock my empty savings.
Tessa stepped closer, her boots clicking on the gray linoleum. She picked up a white plastic folder with blue lettering from the bedside table, flipping through the pages before dropping it back down.
“They need you to sign a blank hospital consent form for the scan results,” Tessa said, sliding a single sheet of paper toward my hand. “It is just standard procedure so we can handle the billing.”
I did not move my hand to reach for the pen she offered. The paper sat on my lap, white and clean.
“I can read it later,” I said. My voice was slow, the words coming out in small, careful blocks.
Tessa stared at me, her eyes narrowing as she inspected her fingernails. The pink polish was chipped at the thumb, revealing the pale crescent beneath.
“There is no later,” she said. “The billing office needs it filed before noon.”
“I am not signing anything blank,” I said, pausing between each word to catch my breath.
Tessa leaned over the rail of the bed, her breath smelling of peppermint and stale coffee. “You cannot even sit up straight, Nora, and the doctors are already asking if you are clear enough to make your own decisions.”
