In Ella’s new story, she posed with a honeybee perched on the pad of her thumb. Restrained by forceps, the bee inserted its stinger. “Ouch,” Ella said offscreen, but her voice was hopeful. “This little guy gave his life so I can feel better,” she said. The story shifted to more of Jake’s gonzo footage from the Blaze party. Music thumped, weed smoke hung over everything. Soon, official content would post, high production value, Blaze the man edited into a starring role. Maybe I would be there, too. Maybe I’d be cut out. I’d signed, so they could do anything they wanted with me. I shut the phone. The TV played a trailer for a series called Swamp Rats. Men in camo baited a human-sized hook with bloody organ meat. A gator this size, they said, is a silent killer, an extreme danger. At this point, Jake should know not to include me in the official content. I’d ignored him since he led me into the dark, left me and lied about it. I was most afraid of being left, and Jake had left me. The man’s hands had been dry and that was where my memory stopped.

I went to the door of my mother’s room. She was where I’d left her. Under the sheets I had turned down, under the hoodie I’d zipped, her rib cage rose and fell like a bellows. Her snores were ragged. She was exhausted. Most likely it was exhaustion. She needed rest. Everyone at the hospital had said so. “Mom,” I said, and touched her shoulder. “Mom.” Nothing changed. “Naurene,” I said and shook her a little. She opened her eyes. Her pupils were seeds, grown over the iris. Jake’s pupils sometimes looked like that. Probably mine did too. It was the drugs. She turned her face away and I glanced at the bottles of pills, the box of patches, 2.1 mg of fentanyl, the same poison Jake tested his powders for.

“Mom,” I said, “wake up.” I shook her shoulder again then patted her face. “Naurene,” I said, and patted it harder. Her skin was damp, hot. “Stay awake.”

Get her strength up, Nancy had said. Travel, fun, bucket list, said the surgeon. With rest she might get there, but here I was, forcing her to stay with me.

“I need you awake for a minute,” I said, and googled “Fentanyl OD.” Slow heart, I read, slow breath, dilated eyes.

“Let me check your heart,” I said, and tried to find its beat. Her wrist was quiet. I put my head on her chest, heard a fast, liquid pulse. I read my phone. Cold skin, it said, but hers was burning. I touched her again. Maybe she was only warm and I was the cold one.

“Honey,” she said, “I’m just tired.”