Her mother gathered her from the bed—scooping the pills into her palm, her petite frame so strong in the moment she had to be—and dragged Summer back to their room, locking the door behind them. She pressed her fingers to Summer’s lips and said: “You know I trained a little as a nurse. I didn’t make it through the program, but I know a little bit. Do you trust me?”

“Yes, Mama.” She allowed her mother to push the pills between her lips, taking a sip of water to wash them down. At one time, her mother had wanted to be a pediatric nurse.

“Here, drink this.” She handed her a bottle with a straw in it. But before she could lift it to her lips, her mother grabbed her wrist and said, “Summer, it’s not water...go slowly. It will help with the pain.”

Her mother set her nose and gave her three stitches where her nostril had split open. When she was done, Summer asked for a mirror. Her mother hesitated, but in the end, she brought it to her, her eyes earnest as she watched for her daughter’s reaction. She stared at herself in her mother’s handheld mirror and thought, Oh, good, you’re Frankenstein’s monster.

“You won’t be able to open your eyes in the morning. They’re going to swell shut. There will be bruising, too.”

But Summer didn’t care. All she wanted was sleep. She tried to close her eyes, but her mother hauled her into a sitting position, propping pillows around her until she felt like a stuffed animal.

“I can’t let you sleep. You might have a concussion.”

“Ever again?” Summer slurred.

Her mother laughed softly. “No, just for a little while. I need to make sure your eyes don’t get weird and you don’t throw up.” Her mother’s voice was light, but Summer knew that she was worried.