I fell forward, my chin striking the edge of the wooden table.

Through the haze, I saw Daniel step forward from the pantry door.

He did not look afraid.

He stood over us, his boots inches from Noah’s hand on the floor.

He did not reach down to help his stepson.

My hand reached weakly toward the blue plate before everything goes dark.

The hospital ceiling was a grid of plastic tiles with one dark corner where a bulb had burned out. My tongue tasted of charcoal, and a plastic tube pinched the inside of my nose.

Dr. Vance stood by the gurney, holding a metal clipboard against his white coat. He had a gray smudge of fatigue under each eye that made him look older than thirty-five.

“The blood work shows an elevated level of a prescription sleep aid, Clara,” he said.

I reached for my left wrist, but my watch was gone, replaced by a white plastic band with my name printed in faint thermal ink. My skin felt cold and bare where the silver band usually rested.