Why am I the lucky one because I survived? Mom, Dad, and my cousin Sara are probably dancing through a celestial meadow somewhere or happily reincarnated as monkeys in India while I face an endless loop of surgeries and doctors and stares from strangers.

But I can’t compete with tombstones. Death trumps suffering every time.

“If it were Sara, I’d want her to live a full life,” she says. “And I know your mother would want you to be happy.”

Her attempt to use dead people to win this argument irks me.

“I’m not Sara. And you’re not my mother.”

Cora turns away from me, and so does Dr. Sharp, pretending to concentrate especially hard on the computer screen rather than acknowledge the tension that fills the exam room like smoke. I hate that Dr. Sharp is here for this embarrassing toddler tantrum, but he’s partly to blame for blindsiding me with this development.

Cora sniffles quietly, and I wish I could take back my jab. She didn’t ask to be my makeshift mother any more than I asked to be her understudy offspring. We’re both trying to navigate this sick twist of “luck” the universe threw our way.

Dr. Sharp clears his throat. “Ava, the fact is, we’re concerned about your level of isolation. Reintegration is a major part of your healing process, and we all think it’s time to start,” he says. I refrain from asking him who this mysterious “all” includes, since my concerning hermit status is news to me. “What if you go to school for a trial period, and then we reassess our reintegration strategy? Say two weeks?”

Cora looks at me hopefully, tears still wetting her eyes, as the guilt of the lucky creeps into my chest. The guilt of the one who lived.

This week marks one year for her, too. One year without her daughter. One year taking care of me, the girl who survived instead.

I can’t give her Sara, but I can give her two weeks.

“Fine,” I say. “Ten school days. If it’s not a complete train wreck, then we’ll talk about more.”

Aunt Cora hugs me so tight that I act like it hurts more than it does so she’ll stop.

“It’s only two weeks,” I remind her. “And it is going to be a complete train wreck.”

“It’s a start,” she says.

I re-cover my scarred scalp with my red bandana as Cora and Dr. Sharp exchange a triumphant look. I toggle the transparent mask between what’s left of my hands, fighting the urge to put it back on.

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