“Give your sister a break, why don’t you,” Daddy tells Cole as he ducks under the doorframe. The doorframe actually looks taller than his reddish-brown fade by a few inches. But being six-foot-seven, he’s had enough headbutting experiences to instinctively duck whenever it’s a close call. He walks around to the other side of the bed and gives me a kiss on the cheek. His face, usually smooth, is rough with bright, patchy stubble. “How are you feeling, Angel-face?”

Angel-face? I haven’t heard that name since I was, like, eight. Hospital or not, we are not about to revive Angel-face. “Not dying or anything,” I answer. “Carli is still good.”

“Got it,” Daddy says, with a single nod of his head. “I spoke to the doctor in the hall. If we schedule the surgery soon, you could be back as early as two weeks.”

Back home? I think. But the surgery isn’t that serious. Back to school? But that would be way too long. Then I realize he’s talking about basketball. Of course, he’s talking about basketball. He’s always talking about basketball. “Yeah?” I reply, close my eyes, and pretend to be tired from all the drama of passing out.

I forgot to tell you about that. At the basketball tournament earlier today, I had a gallbladder attack. Yes, a gallbladder attack. Apparently, in rare cases, sixteen-year-olds can have them. Basically, the pain of a gall stone passing through my bile duct was so intense that it made me faint. And now the doctor says my gallbladder has to come out.

“Hey, Mom,” Cole says.

I open my eyes and see Cole giving Mom a hug. Dang, he’s so much taller than her now. I guess I’m taller than her, too—barely. Cole only passed her last year but has grown five inches since. Now he’s almost catching Daddy. I swear the boy has gotten taller since dinner last night.

“Oh, did y’all win?” I ask Cole. He had a basketball tournament today, too. Caught up with all the gallbladder stuff, I’d forgotten to ask him about it. I try to be super supportive because he can get down on himself about still playing on JV. It’s normal for sophomores to play on JV. Me making varsity three years ago as a freshman is not the norm.

Cole doesn’t answer me. He’s still hugging Mom. Cole loves hugs—good-morning hugs . . . good-night hugs . . . happy-to-meet-you hugs . . . happy-to-see-you (even though I just saw you five minutes ago) hugs . . . sorry-you-had-to-spend-the-last-three-hours-detangling-your-hair hugs . . . sorry-you-spilled-water-all-over-your-magazine hugs. He lets go of Mom but still doesn’t answer me. He’s staring at her.

Mom walks over to me, and Daddy backs up toward the window. He doesn’t speak to Mom and Mom doesn’t speak to him. Mom’s eyes are red and puffy, like she’s been crying for a long time. Clearly, they’ve been fighting.