I pressed my hand harder against the wound, trying to focus. My training kicked in. Keep calm. Stop the bleeding. Don’t lose consciousness. But my body wasn’t listening. The pain was deep and hot, radiating through my arm. Mom took a step closer, voice trembling.
“Emma, honey, you must have slipped.”
“I didn’t slip,” I said through gritted teeth.
Peter pointed toward the floor.
“Get a towel for God’s sake.”
Lauren was crying now, shaking her head.
“I didn’t mean to. She grabbed me. She”
Mom’s tone hardened.
“Lauren, go upstairs now. She’s bleeding.”
Lauren shouted.
I said,
“Go.”
And just like that, they went back into coverup mode. The family brand had to stay intact. No police, no questions, no headlines. But I wasn’t their PR problem anymore. I fumbled for my phone with my good hand, blood smearing across the screen. My thumb hovered over a contact labeled simply Delta 6. It wasn’t for family emergencies. It was for when a federal employee was under threat, domestic, foreign, or otherwise. I pressed send. A confirmation prompt appeared for half a second before disappearing into encrypted silence. Mom was saying something, her voice distant, muffled, unimportant. The edges of the room blurred. I could taste iron in my mouth. Lauren’s voice came again shaky.
“She’s fine, right? Emma, say something.”
I looked up at her, dizzy, but clear.
“You just made this federal one.”
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Then everything went dark. When I woke up, bright hospital lights burned my eyes. My shoulder was bandaged, my arm strapped to my side. Machines beeped quietly beside me. For a moment, I thought maybe I’d dreamed it all. But then I heard voices outside the curtain. Low official, unfamiliar. Federal duress protocol. One of them said,
“Time stamp 27 hours.”
Another voice responded,
“Calm and clipped. Get confirmation from Fort Me. If this was a Delta activation, we’re treating it as an assault on a federal officer.”
Mom appeared next to my bed, face pale, but composed.
“Oh, thank God you’re awake,” she said, gripping my hand. “You scared us half to death.”
I blinked slowly.
“Where’s Lauren?”
“She’s at home,” Mom said quickly. “It was an accident, honey. You must have tripped.”
“And I repeated. She’s devastated. She feels terrible.”
There it was again, that polished lie wrapped in motherly concern. She wasn’t worried about me. She was worried about what this would look like. I closed my eyes.
“Mom,” I said softly. “Please don’t talk.”
Her smile faltered.
“Sweetheart, I’m tired,”
I said.
She nodded and stepped back.
“I’ll bring your things later.”
