Delaney James was wearing Chanel the night her husband told her he didn't love her anymore.
In an instant, her picture-perfect Manhattan life-complete with a brownstone on the Upper East Side, a blossoming career as a fashion journalist, and a devas...
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"Wake up!" The voice is far away – wrong somehow, like it's coming from outside the room. "Henry, why isn't she waking up? What's wrong with her?"
My mom, I think.
It takes a second too long to recognize her, her voice stretched thin in a way I don't understand, and the way she says her –
Who is she talking about?
"I don't know, Connie. Just – calm down." My dad's voice follows, thick, like it has to push through something to reach me. "Delaney. Time to wake up. Come on, now."
Oh... me.
I try, but my eyelids barely lift before they fall closed again, too heavy to hold, light pressing in too fast before everything goes dark.
Breathing feels off.
Too shallow. Not enough.
My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, dry, useless, and I try to swallow but nothing happens. I reach for the glass on my nightstand – at least I think I do – but my arm doesn't move the way it should. It drags, sluggish and distant, like it's not fully mine.
"I'm fine," I try to say.
Or I mean to. Nothing comes out.
"Delaney, wake up!" My mom again, closer now, her voice breaking. "Oh my God – Henry, is she –"
The rest slips past me before I can catch it.
"What's happening?
There's movement – too much, too fast – and then my dad is there, his hands on my face, warm and strong. "Sweetie?" he says. He sounds like he's in a tunnel. "What is it? What are you trying to say?"
I open my mouth, but whatever comes out barely sounds like anything at all – thin, broken, nothing close to words.
"Folks, we need you to step aside."
There are new voices now. Several of them, all deep.
Everything shifts all at once.
The blanket is gone, cold air rushing over my skin, severe enough that I should react, but I don't. People move over me – pressing, lifting, turning – too many to follow. Someone grabs my arm, squeezing, and a light cuts through my eyes even though they're barely open.
I try to pull away.
I can't.
"Is she on anything?" someone asks.
"I – we don't know," my mom says, her words tripping over each other. "She went out last night with a friend. A club. I don't – she's been – did she do this to herself?"
No. The thought forms slowly, but it's immediate. No.
But it doesn't make it out.
Hands move faster now – lifting my chin, pressing at my throat, fingers at my wrist.
