For half a second, I consider not answering.
I hit accept.
“Mijo?” Her voice is already high and tight. “What happened? The hospital called.”
Of course they did.Emergency contact forms. I’d forgotten that box we both checked, listing each other and our parents like some optimistic future.
I swallow. My throat feels like sandpaper. “It’s Caleb,” I say. The words slice my tongue. “He… he tried. Again.”
She makes a sound that’s half gasp, half sob. “Dios mío. Is he… is he?—”
“He’s alive,” I say quickly, because I can’t do this twice. “They… they’re working on him. He took pills and he… he cut.” The last word scrapes out of me.
“Where are you?” she demands.
“ER waiting area,” I say. “By the double doors.Mamá, te necesito.”
“We’re coming,” she says. “Ashton is with me. Do not move from that chair,¿me oyes?We’re coming.”
The line clicks as she hangs up before I can argue.
I don’t move.
I couldn’t if I wanted to.
People pass in front of me, nurses, doctors, someone with a broken arm, a kid crying quietly into a blanket. The TV on the wall plays some muted nighttime talk show, the laugh track tinny and wrong. The vending machine hums in the background.
I stare at a spot on the floor until the pattern in the linoleum blurs together. Then I catch myself counting breaths.
Not mine.
I’m not sure I’m even breathing anymore.
At some point, a nurse comes over and asks me to fill out a form. Name, relationship, his full name, his date of birth, and his insurance. My hand cramps around the pen.
“The doctor will come talk to you as soon as they can,” she says, the script smooth. “He’s in good hands.”
Everyone keeps saying that.
All I can see in my head is his wrist, the tiny, stupid line across old scars. The orange bottle and the way his eyes fluttered like he was fighting through mud.
You’re allowed to go live your life even when he’s having a bad day,Luis said.
Right now, I want to grab him by his stupid fucking therapist shirt and shake him. “What about this?” I want to yell. “What about when his bad day almost kills him?”
“Miguel.”
Dad’s voice yanks me back.
I look up.
Mom is in front, hair pulled back, jacket zipped up like she came in such a hurry she didn’t even think to take it off in the car. Her eyes are wild, already shiny with unshed tears. Ashton is just behind her, tie askew, suit jacket half-on, half-off, as if he couldn’t decide whether to be lawyer Ashton or Dad Ashton and ended up somewhere in between.
Mom drops to her knees in front of me and grabs my face with both hands. “Mi niño,” she breathes, taking in my appearance. “Are you hurt?”
The question scrapes something raw in me. I shake my head. “Not—not physically,” I say.
Her gaze flicks to my hands. Blood stains. Band of red around my wrist where I was holding his.
