My mom was frantically asking questions now, words tumbling over each other. When did I see the doctor? What exactly did he say? Could we get the prescription filled today? Tomorrow? How bad was it really? My dad tried defending himself.
“We thought the phone was on sale. We can get your medication next week.”
“The doctor said the longer I wait, the worse it gets.”
I pushed my chair back, standing up. The room swayed a little, but I steadied myself with both hands on the table.
“He said immediate. He said urgent. He didn’t say, ‘Whenever your family gets around to it.’”
“Lena, sit down. We’ll figure this out.”
“No.”
I grabbed my purse from the back of my chair.
“No, I don’t think we will.”
“Don’t you dare walk out of this house,” my dad barked.
I looked at him. Really looked at him. This man who is supposed to protect me, who is supposed to put my well-being before a phone, before his pride, before anything.
“If anything happens to me,” I said softly, “remember this moment. Remember that you had a choice.”
I walked toward the front door. My mom was calling my name. My dad was standing up, chair scraping loudly. Ava was saying something about not being dramatic, but I didn’t look back. I couldn’t. If I looked back, I might stay. And if I stayed, I might forgive them before they deserved it.
I drove back to campus with my hands gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles went white. My phone buzzed repeatedly—Mom, Dad, even Ava. I ignored all of them. The numbness in my fingers was spreading up my wrists now. The dizzy spell was getting worse. I pulled into the first urgent care clinic I could find. The waiting room was mostly empty on a Sunday evening. I checked in with a receptionist who barely looked up from her computer, then sat in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs and tried not to think about the fact that I’d just walked out on my family, or that they’d chosen a phone over my health, or that this might actually be as serious as the campus doctor made it sound. When my name was finally called, I followed the nurse back with legs that felt like jelly. They took my vitals again—blood pressure high, heart rate elevated, oxygen levels fine. The nurse noted the tremor in my hands when I tried to sign the consent forms. The doctor who came in was older, with silver hair and glasses that sat at the end of his nose. He reviewed my file on his tablet, frowning.
“You saw a campus physician last week?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“And he prescribed medication that you haven’t started taking yet.”
“My family was supposed to pick it up. They didn’t.”
He looked at me over his glasses. Didn’t say anything. Just looked at me in this way that made me feel simultaneously seen and utterly exposed.
“I need that medication,” I said. My voice cracked. “I need it now.”
“Let me examine you first.”
The examination was more thorough than the one at campus. He tested my reflexes, my coordination, my responses, asked detailed questions about every symptom. How long? How often? Had they gotten worse? Did anything trigger them? When he was done, he sat back and crossed his arms.
“I’d like to access your previous medical records. Do I have your permission?”
“Sure. I mean, there’s not much. I’m pretty healthy usually.”
He tapped his tablet for several long minutes while I sat there picking at my thumbnail. Then his frown deepened.
“That’s odd,” he murmured.
“What?”
