Heather, wake up, kick-start your heart, remember how you used to be a tough stoner girl. How you used to write AC/DC on your notebook, drawing the lightning bolt all jagged and fierce. Remember how the first time Dale called you Hole, you just turned very slowly and said, Dale, shut your fucking mouth. Don’t you. Can’t you. Remember how you drank from your flask of gin right in the middle of science class.

If only I could break through the beige door with the long steel bar, shake her, and say, Remember how tough you used to be. But what if I did break through, went up to her room and saw her comatose? Her blond wings might be shaved away, her scalp nicked with blood and yellow stubble. Her skin might be sallow and tinged with blue. A stiff white cloth might be covering her entire body, chafing under her chin. Or she might be perfectly calm, and look at me with blank, blind eyes. I thought that would be even worse. If all her toughness was gone, if they’d told her she needed to change. That would be the worst thing—if she tried to turn into a good girl because of what those idiots did. If I looked at her, and she just said, Sara, I’m all better now. I’m so calm.

I stood up and walked right over to the lady with a new plan. I thought I’d act a little crazy so they’d have to put me in a room. Once I took acid and I tried to remember how it felt to trip so I could start talking gibberish. There was a poster of that annoying Garfield cartoon, that stupid fat orange cat. What I thought I’d do was this: I’d point at Garfield and start ranting about how he was Jim Morrison. Giggling madly, I’d say, Hey! It’s the Lizard King! Then I’d get on my hands and knees and start crawling across the floor, mumbling Riders on the Storm. Maybe I’d roll over on my back and start to drool.

China could have done it. She would have been so great, just flipping out and spitting all over the place. ’Cause she could lose control. And I just couldn’t. It made no sense. A febrile heart, fissures in my veins, and still, I couldn’t lose my cool.

So instead, I just placed the wilting blossom on the small beige wall separating me from the typing lady. How’s Heather doing? I said. Is she OK? I tried my best to sound friendly so she’d be on my side.

All patient information is confidential, she said. She sounded just like a robot. Like R2-D2.

Can you just tell me if she’s alive?

But no, she said no. No, I cannot tell you anything.