Amber’s POV

The door closes behind Dr. Bae with a depressing finality.

You watch her silhouette quickly floating down the hallway outside until you lose sight of her retreating back. It wouldn’t do to be caught in the crossfire, even though she caused it.

Krystal’s shaking like a leaf. You desperately want to climb out of bed and comfort her, but all the damn tubes and needles have you imprisoned within their plastic confines.

“Krys, hey, babe, come here,” you call out softly.

Your voice seems to act like a stimulant because she rotates on the spot toward you and robotically walks over. You notice she has your backpack, which she sets down on the guest chair along with whatever fast food she thought to bring. Once that’s done, however, she remains standing. You can see the loose shirt she’s wearing flutter in tiny waves from her trembling.

“It’s going to be all right, I got you.” You try to inject as much optimism as you can into that phrase. “Come and cuddle with me.”

She manages to crawl into the tiny bed once more, adjusting herself carefully under the thin sheet. Although her weight pressing against your ribcage hurts like hell, you don’t even wince. She gingerly wraps an arm around your waist and snuggles her head in the space between your shoulder and neck. Together, you two lay like that for a while. Who knew when would be the next time you’d get to do this?

“I’m so scared,” Krystal whimpers against your skin.

“Shhh, it’s okay, it’ll all be okay.” You croon those words over and over again like a mantra. Perhaps you could will a happy ending into existence.

The seconds stretch into minutes. But finally, both of you hear the sound of footsteps pausing outside the door. Krystal stiffens and slides out of the bed, leaving your side cold. You don’t get a chance to pull her back before the door opens.

A woman stands, shadowed against the bright backdrop of the hospital corridor. Even in the dim lighting, you recognize her face, the same one from your dream. It’s uncanny, a true moment of déjà vu. She’s splendid, even more beautiful than Krystal. The same chiseled face, Grecian nose, hooded eyes, arching eyebrows. Her dark hair waves to her waist, elegant even in its stillness. Like Krystal, she carries herself with a certain grace rarely found within people. But unlike her daughter, the mother’s air of supreme authority is unquestionable. There’s no mistaking that she’s always the one in charge. It’s like looking into a supernova, you want to shield your eyes from the pure amount of energy she radiates. She’s garbed in a deep red turtleneck and flared black pants, an enormous handbag hanging from the crook of her arm. And as far as you can tell, she came alone.

The woman surveys you and Krystal for a minute. Then she takes a deliberate step into the room and shuts the door behind her. It reminds you of someone nailing shut a coffin lid.

“Hello, Krystal,” the rich velvety tones of the woman’s voice wash over you like silk on satin. “Why don’t you introduce me to your friend?”

“Amber, this is my mother,” Krystal murmurs between nearly still lips. “Mother, meet Amber.”<