The next time I opened my eyes, I was under a fluorescent ceiling, shaking beneath a thin, scratchy blanket. A kind but hurried nurse asked if I could feel my toes. I could, barely. I reached for my phone, its screen cracked just like me, and scrolled to the one number that had always meant safety: Dad.

The first call went to voicemail. On the third try, he answered, his voice already clipped with annoyance. “Stella, what is it? I’m in the middle of something. Clare’s having a moment.”