Chapter 3

The next day, Mom and Dad carried a listless, hollow-eyed Lily out of the hospital.

As Dad folded the princess dress, his fingers paused on a stiff, dark-red patch of fabric on the sleeve.

After a moment, he called out to Mom, who was coaxing Lily to drink some water.

"Come look at this. Is this... is this blood?"

Mom walked over. One glance, and her face went white.

She grabbed Lily's arm and frantically checked her over.

"Lily, tell Mommy—where are you hurt? Let me see!"

Dad tensed up too, checking Lily's other arm, even lifting her hair to examine her scalp.

Lily just stared with empty eyes, letting them move her around however they wanted. No crying, no fussing, no words at all.

They didn't find a single wound.

That blood wasn't Lily's.

I floated over and looked too.

That bloodstain was probably from when the bad man grabbed me and Lily.

He had grabbed my hair and yanked it back hard.

In the searing pain, I lost my balance and my forehead slammed into a jagged rock jutting from the wall.

Warm liquid instantly blurred my left eye, carrying the taste of rust.

A few scalding drops of blood splashed from my forehead and landed on Lily's blue sleeve—the sleeve she was using to grip my shirt so tightly.

"Emma!"

Lily's piercing scream was the last clear sound I remembered.

After that, everything became chaotic and dark.

I only remembered using the last of my strength to shove Lily toward the crowded plaza.

Then more fists and more pain rained down on me.

By the time I was aware of anything again, I was already floating, weightless, crouching in front of the cake Mom had saved for me.

"It's not Lily's blood..."

Dad's eyes were blank, his voice trembling as he asked Mom, "Then whose is it?"

Mom didn't answer.

She suddenly turned to look at Lily, who kept murmuring "Emma" over and over.

The hand holding the water bottle wouldn't stop shaking.

Unlike the car ride to the hospital, filled with Mom's constant cursing—

The drive home was dead silent.

I followed them into the apartment complex.

Just as they reached the entrance to their building, they ran into the college-aged guy who lived across the hall.

He was on his bike, about to head out.

"Hey Mr. and Mrs. Carter, is Lily feeling better?"

He stopped his bike, a simple, friendly smile on his face.

"Oh, and Mrs. Carter—happy belated birthday."

"Yesterday's cake had extra mango in it, you know. Emma asked us to add it. She said it's your favorite."

The moment he finished speaking—

I saw Mom's fingers twitch violently. Her nails dug into her own palm.

The guy kept talking, his tone light and teasing.

"Last month, Emma helped out at my parents' bakery for a whole afternoon. She earned a little money and was so happy—said she wanted to buy you a birthday present."

"She even asked my mom which hand cream was best. Said your hands crack in the winter."

He concluded with a smile.

"Emma's such a good kid. Sweet, thoughtful, and hardworking too."

Mom and Dad stood frozen in place.

I was a little stunned too.

I thought about that tube of hand cream.

I had hidden it in the innermost zippered pocket of my backpack, guarding it like a big, sweet secret.

Every night after finishing my homework, I would secretly take it out and hold it.

I imagined how Mom might look when she got it—would she smile, even for just a second?

Would she reach out with those hands and gently ruffle my hair?

Even just once.

But now, that hand cream was probably still lying quietly in that backpack.

Tucked away with my body, which had long since gone cold, hidden in some filthy corner.

Mom opened her mouth, probably about to argue like she always did.

But this time, all the sharp words got stuck in her throat.

For the first time, when it came to something about me—she was silent.

Back home, the silence stretched on.

Without a word, Mom grabbed the mop and started scrubbing the floor, pressing down so hard it was like she wanted to stab right through it.

Dad didn't turn on his computer. He sat on the couch, then suddenly looked up and asked Mom:

"Emma's been gone all night."

"She's only nine. Where could she even hide?"

Mom slammed the mop onto the floor and hissed through clenched teeth.

"How should I know?"

"You're on that stupid game all day! You don't even care that your daughter ran away!"

"I don't care?"

Dad shot to his feet, his voice rising.

"Every time I tried to discipline her, who said I did a good job?"

"Who's the one who took the dress I bought for her and gave it to Lily, saying the big sister should give in to the little sister?"

"And what about you? Have you ever gone to a single parent-teacher conference for her? Have you ever washed her clothes even once?"

Their argument raged on, each of them scrambling to prove they weren't to blame.

Adults are ridiculous. Even worse than kids when it comes to dodging responsibility.

I sat on the ceiling light, swinging my little legs.

At least I don't have to grow up.

"Last year when she was in the hospital with a fever, you sat outside her room playing games for three days straight!"

"And you? You took Lily to the indoor playground and left her all alone in the hospital!"

Every word was a knife—cutting the other person, and cutting themselves too.

Like that was the only way they could feel better.

Mom suddenly stopped, breathing hard, and looked around the apartment.

On the living room wall hung Lily's first birthday photo. On the coffee table sat Lily's toys. Even the fridge magnets were covered with Lily's drawings.

This home—where was there any trace of me?

Dad followed her gaze, his face slowly draining of color.

He opened his mouth, but in the end just slumped back onto the couch and said in a voice almost too quiet to hear:

"Did we... did we really treat Emma badly?"

Yes.

For a long time now.

Outside, the distant wail of sirens began to echo, getting closer and closer.

Mom and Dad instinctively walked to the window and looked down.

Mom's hand gripped Dad's arm tightly, her lips trembling.

"Something didn't happen, did it?"