The beeping wakes me first. Rhythmic. Insistent.

The kind of sound that burrows into your skull and sets up permanent residence. I try to open my eyes, but my lids feel like they’ve been glued shut. When I finally pry them apart, fluorescent lights sear my retinas.

Where am I? The answer comes in fragments: white ceiling tiles, that antiseptic smell that coats the back of your throat, the tight pull of something taped to my hand. IV line.

Hospital. My throat burns. Raw.

Wrong. I try to swallow, but it feels like I’ve swallowed broken glass. I reach up with a trembling hand and touch my neck, feeling the tenderness there.

They had a tube down my throat. How long was I out? I fumble for my phone on the bedside table.

My fingers feel thick, clumsy, refusing to grip the smooth metal. It takes three tries before I can lift it. The screen lights up.

3:47 a.m. Monday. Monday.

I collapsed on Thursday. Four days ago. Four days I’ve been here, and the notification count on my phone sits at a grand total of three.

Three. My parents should have called a hundred times by now. Kinsley would have blown up my phone with dramatic voice messages about how worried she was, how I scared everyone.

That’s how it always goes when I’m unavailable for more than a few hours: they panic, they demand, they need. But my screen shows nothing. No missed calls.

No frantic texts asking where I am or if I’m okay. I tap the notification icon, and my stomach drops through the hospital bed. Bank of America.

$12,400 charge at Cabo San Lucas Resort. Posted two days ago. My vision blurs, and I have to blink hard to clear the fog.

I read it again. $12,400. Cabo San Lucas.

I’ve never been to Cabo San Lucas. I haven’t been anywhere in three years except Seattle and the occasional logistics conference in Portland. The second notification is Instagram.

I don’t even remember the last time I opened Instagram. Kinsley lives on it, posts her entire existence for strangers to consume. I only keep the app because she guilt-trips me when I don’t like her photos fast enough.

I tap it. My thumb shakes so badly I almost drop the phone. The image loads, and something inside my chest cracks open.

Preston. Deidre. Kinsley.

All three of them clustered around a table, margaritas raised high, the ocean glittering behind them in perfect sunset lighting. My father wears that stupid Hawaiian shirt I bought him last Christmas. My mother has her hair done in beach waves, makeup flawless.