Naomi's vision darkened, the crystal chamber dissolving around her. When she opened her eyes again, the sterile white walls of Mercy General Hospital surrounded her. The antiseptic smell hit her nostrils, sharp and chemical.
She looked down at her body—skinny arms, chipped black nail polish, baggy hoodie. Fifteen years old again. Her purple-tipped hair hung in her face, unwashed and tangled.
The heart monitor beeped in rhythmic pulses beside the hospital bed, where her mother lay. Maria Phillips was a skeleton draped in papery skin, her once-vibrant eyes sunken into dark hollows. A plastic tube snaked into her arm, delivering morphine that barely touched her pain.
"Mom?" Naomi's voice came out high and cracked.
Maria's eyelids fluttered. "Baby? That you?"
Naomi moved to the bedside, her fingers hovering over her mother's hand, afraid to touch and cause more pain. "Yeah, it's me. How are you feeling?"
