I spent the next three days recording everything. Every twitch. Every breath. And I started paying attention to the hospital—really paying attention—in a way I hadn’t before.

Meera’s room was in the long-term care wing. Fourth floor. Eight patients total. All of them in vegetative states. All of them on life support. Most families had given up hope, visiting only on holidays or birthdays. I was the fixture. The ghost in the corner.

I started to notice the things I had stopped seeing because they had become background noise.

How the night nurses always came in pairs to check on Meera. How they would lock the door from the inside when they entered. How they adjusted her IV bags with movements that seemed rehearsed, secretive. How they would glance at the cameras in the corners of the room—cameras I had assumed were for security, but now felt like surveillance.

I started watching the other patients, too. All of them young. All of them female. Ages ranging from thirteen to twenty-two. All victims of sudden, tragic accidents. Car crashes. Drownings. Drug overdoses. All declared vegetative. All with families who had stopped visiting.

Except Meera. Meera still had me.

And suddenly, I wondered if that was the problem.