Well, that explains it, the feeling like a horse was stamping on my chest. I’ve had pneumonia before, but it’s been a few years since I was in the hospital for it. I’d take it over being the “seizure kid” again, any day. But Mom doesn’t look like she’d agree.

“How long have I been here?”

She rubs my arm above the IV.

“Four days.”

“Four days!”

“They had to keep you pretty sedated for most of it. You kept trying to pull off your oxygen mask.”

“But I’ve got school! I missed my history test!” I try to sit up farther now, but the pillow slips and I can’t find the button on the side of the bed.

“Ellie, we will figure all that out later. For now, you rest. Look. They brought a few DVDs up from the lending library.”

I flip through them. Frozen. Hannah Montana. The Muppet Christmas Carol. I am six again.

A few days later and there’s a knock on the open door. Mema and Grandpa walk in with a dozen giant balloons shaped like cupcakes. They float up to the ceiling and bob along in the breeze from the air vent.

“There’s my girl!” Mema says, and leans over to hug me, and thankfully it doesn’t hurt.

“Hi, Mema. Hi, Grandpa.”

“Ellie, love, you gave us quite a scare,” Grandpa says.

They’re in their church clothes, and Grandpa’s got a bit of tissue stuck to his chin from cutting himself shaving. He smells like Dial soap and leather. I start to cry.

I’m just so tired of all of this, and I don’t mean the hospital. The wheelchair thing I can handle. But I hate it when the rest of me doesn’t work. That’s what nobody gets—the CP isn’t only about not being able to move my body; it also makes my whole system weak. I get sick more than most people. I get worn out more than most people. I get ambulance rides and hospital stays for stupid reasons. And I hate it.

“Okay, you two, why don’t you go down and get me some coffee. Ellie and I need another minute,” Mom says, and they shuffle out the door.

I wipe my eyes on the blanket.

“Ellie.” I look up. Mom’s in advocate mode and I don’t like it. “We need to talk.”

“What about?”

“We need to talk about our situation.”

“What situation?”

“I spoke with your father.”

The word “father” lands at my feet like a rock through a window.

“Why?”

“He’s concerned. Wait—let me finish. I am too. Honey, this place just isn’t as equipped to meet your needs.”

“No.” I wave my hands at her even though it hurts with the IV. “No. We’re not going back. And since when is Dad concerned about anything having to do with me?”

“Ellie—”