“Hi, Elena,” Leo whispered, his eyes wide and terrified. He glanced back at Martha, seeking permission to exist.

“Go on, Leo,” Martha urged, her voice dropping an octave, losing its saccharine lilt. It was a command, hard and flat. “Give it to her. Just like we practiced.”

Leo approached the bed. The cup was filled with bright orange liquid. Juice. My mouth watered instinctively; the hospital IVs kept me hydrated, but I was craving something real, something sweet.

“I made it for you,” Leo said, his voice trembling. He held the cup out with both hands, like an offering at an altar.

David appeared in the doorway then. He didn’t come in. He stood leaning against the frame, his face pale, sweat beading on his upper lip. He looked at me, then looked away, focusing intently on the linoleum tiles. He was vibrating with anxiety, checking his watch, then his phone.