I hug my knees in and hide my face. It’s a reflex to ball up, shield myself from the world when it’s all too much. Part of me knows they’re right to panic. I have no idea what’ll happen to me, and underneath the shock and grief, I’m terrified too.

“Remy,” Mom says, her voice like a slap to the face. “This is not the time to play the sullen teenager.” She always knows exactly what to say to get a rise out of me.

“I’m not playing. This isn’t a game,” I say, head still buried, hidden behind my legs. “Jack’s dead.”

Words that I haven’t allowed myself to even think now hang in the air. He’s really gone.

“Yes. And I know you’re sad,” Mom tries again. “But—”

“Sad?” I can’t believe her. She’s always been like this. Cold, uncaring. I used to think maybe she had to cut off her emotions because she’s a surgeon, but now I think maybe she never had any to begin with and that was precisely why she was such a good surgeon.

She pushes on. “But you have to think about yourself at this point. There’s nothing you can do for him now. And do you think Jack would want you to—”

“Is that what you think when someone dies on the table? That there’s nothing you can do for them now?” I am screaming, struggling to contain myself. “You would. You don’t give a shit about anyone but yourself.” I release my legs and grip the couch seats, knuckles white. I start to cry and it’s a capitulation. I’ve lost.

“Yes,” she says without flinching. “That’s exactly what I do. I have to. Because the next person I operate on deserves my best. You can’t just crawl into bed and shut out the world.” She’s right about one thing—all I want to do is crawl into bed and shut everything out. All I want to do is sink into my pain, let it drown me. “You have to think about what’s in front of you.”

“Well, of course, that’s you. You’re perfect. A machine. How can any of us ever measure up? No one was ever good enough for you. Not Dad, not me—” This is an old argument, these are all words I’ve flung at her before. It’s a strange comfort, being back here with her. Surreal but almost normal. The boy I love is dead and it feels like the world is closing in on me, but here we are sparring like always.

“I do what I do to survive.” Her voice has turned deadly quiet and it’s more terrifying than when she’s screaming at the top of her lungs. “I have to make hard decisions every single day. Life-or-death decisions. All you have to do is go to school, get good grades, avoid getting caught up in a murder investigation. How do you fuck that up?”

Christian’s eyes are wide, but I know he won’t step in on my behalf. He can barely look at me, eyes down on his phone. Maybe he thinks I’m hopeless, stupid, a lost cause—the way Mom sees me. Maybe he thinks I’m something worse, a monster, and he can’t stand to be in the same room as me.