“Thinking about that cock,” I wrote and touched the button to send. I closed the screen, feeling like it was smart, to remind Jake of my implants. It was important to stay relevant with him, too. I touched my hair, the new upside-down heart shape my breasts made over my sternum, covering the actual heart beneath the bone. I touched my phone again. Still nothing. What if Jake never responded? It seemed suddenly possible and I couldn’t let that happen. The uncertainty of my mother’s future made Jake’s approval, his power, more important than ever. I needed money. I needed a plan. I couldn’t imagine losing my mom. But I could imagine being entirely alone. I opened my photos, looked again at the image I’d sent. Moments ago it had seemed hot. But now it seemed tone-deaf, unstable. My mother was in the hospital. And here I was, showing off my fake tits.

I closed the phone again, tried to count breaths. Jake’s reply, when it came, took only minutes. But it felt like longer.

“Thx for the pic, how’s your mom?” he wrote.

I groaned out loud. “She’s doing well, thanks for asking,” I typed, unsure of how to tell the truth without overburdening him. Low maintenance, chill, that was the kind of girl guys wanted. Sick moms weren’t sexy.

I waited for ellipsis to tell me Jake was typing. They didn’t appear. I needed to change the subject, ask a question, something to keep the conversation going.

I wrote, “Where are you?”

“Belize for a few days.”

“I miss u,” I typed, then deleted it, gave myself the smallest props for deleting it, for controlling the need I felt building up in my fingertips, dangerous as any drug, prompting me to act before I carefully considered what to say, and how to say it. I put the phone down, focused on my breasts again, which I touched one at a time, with care. The weightlifter girls said massage was an important step in the healing, “fluffing” process. Jake had promised to do it for me. I squeezed a little, then let go quick. I kept thinking of that truck, speeding over a silicone pocket the size of a jellyfish. I kept thinking of how strong it was, the love sewn up inside me.

FROM THE DOORWAY of my mother’s new room, I saw that she was awake. But her body looked unconscious, arms limp and noodled.

“Let’s get you untangled,” a nurse said. She leaned over the bed, parsed wires. “Okay?” she said and wedged a call button, a PCA bolus, within reach. My mom said, “Yes,” and “Thank you,” like a shy child, the words sing-songed and soft. I felt like the hidden witness of a private moment, but walked in anyway, swinging the turquoise purse too enthusiastically.

“I’m the daughter,” I said.

“Hi,” the nurse said. My mom stayed quiet.