Naomi stood in a hospital room, the too-familiar beeping of monitors providing a rhythmic backdrop to her rising panic. The sterile white walls, the antiseptic smell, the plastic chair beside the bed—she remembered all of it with sickening clarity. The harsh fluorescent lights cast everything in that unnatural, unforgiving glow that made even the living look half-dead. The linoleum floor was scuffed from countless worried paces, just as she had worn her own path three years ago.
On the bed lay her mother, Maria, her skin ashen against the white sheets, her once vibrant presence diminished to this fragile form connected to machines that cost more per day than they made in a month.
"No," Naomi whispered, her fingers instinctively reaching for the gold bracelet on her wrist—a nervous habit when confronted with memories of poverty. "Not this. Anything but this. I've made something of myself. I don't need to see where it started."
