The rest of the summer, as Mom had shopped for a new wheelchair-accessible house and had dealt with hospital bills and dad’s rehab, I had taken care of my brother. I had driven him to appointments and to Martin where he was taking independent study courses in higher math. I had made sure he took his medicine everyday, and had even contemplated transferring to Martin for the next school year so that I could watch out for him, but Carmen had talked me out of it. And I had never thanked her for that.

Now, on the day after the Fourth of July, the emergency room was crowded with firecracker mishaps and holiday binges. The injured and families of the injured in varying degrees of pain and distress filled the main waiting room. No Blockens. A pair of old men watched a baseball game playing on a TV tethered high in the corner, and children squabbled over toys in the corner while their parents flipped through dog-eared magazines. A dishwater blond woman shot them dagger looks and bent over her dog-eared copy of The Bell Jar.

Glancing from face to face, I felt my first twinge of apprehension. It was instinct that had made me head to the hospital as soon as I could. I hadn’t wanted it to be like that last time when I had put something trivial by comparison first. But this was different. This wasn’t my family in crisis. I shouldn’t have come. I’ve never been a Blocken favorite, except to Olivia, and my family wasn’t too high on their charts either. In some way, I knew Mrs. Blocken would blame Mark for the accident.

Before I could flee, though, Bree appeared carrying a paper cup of coffee. “India?”

“How is she?” I asked.

“She’s in surgery now to release fluid from her brain.”

“Oh,” I replied. If I said anything else, I would’ve thrown up on her sandals. Even paper cuts make me queasy. After a beat, I asked, “And the rest of her family?”