[File 001: Mother's Relief]
White walls stared, the porcelain floor shined, catching every bit of light.
The air smelled faintly of medicine.
Charlotte Tompson, forty, sat alone on a smooth brown guest chair, facing an empty black leather office seat.
Still waiting.
She leaned forward, arms resting on the polished brown table, as if bracing herself. Hands locked together, fingers squeezing and slipping in restless rhythm.
One foot tapped steadily, its soft thuds mixing with the wall clock's tick-tock.
Suddenly, the office door swung open with a thud.
Charlotte gasped. Brown eyes twinkling beneath natural long lashes. Pink lips, lined dark, parted in surprise.
She turned to the door.
Brown shoes. Khaki pants. A white coat brushed past.
He clutched a medical report. Bald. Glasses. A pink, scrubbed complexion staring down at her.
"Hello, Mrs. Tompson!" His lips curved into a polite smile. "Thanks for being patient with me. I hope I didn't hold you up too much."
"Hello doctor Richards!"
Doctor Richards strode to his office chair, clothes rustling with each step.
The chair groaned, squeaking as he pulled it closer; a faint wisp of his perfume drifted toward Charlotte.
Stacked files lined a neat corner of the otherwise empty table. A clear glass jug and an empty glass stood beside them.
Soft thud as he set the report down.
Another file joined it, the scrape of paper sharp in the silence.
A desk calendar flipped open, the page reading April 2013.
Green cover: "Michigan Private Hospital." Pages fluttered. Cursive name: Michael Tompson.
"Alright, Doctor." She exhaled deeply. "Give it to me straight. What are we looking at?"
"Mrs. Tompson, I have your son's results…"
Fingers twitched against her tailored black trousers. Watch glinted—08:15 AM.
She waited.
"And everything's looking good. He's fully recovered."
"Oh, thank God!" Charlotte breathed, exhaling the tension she'd held tight.
"Alright now… as much as I appreciate your relief and joy, we need to go over his results before I can discharge him and let you take him home."
"Okay then, tell me doctor—anything in particular I should watch for while he's getting back on his feet?"
"Actually… now that you mention it, there is one thing…"
"O-kay."
"First off, we need to talk about why he even got sick to begin with."
Doctor Richards picked up the report. Flipped to the right page. His eyes scanned the words carefully.
"When we ran the blood work, we found traces of some pretty heavy sedatives—in high concentrations." Dr. Richards said, voice steady but grave. "Look, overdosing on a drug is one thing. Being allergic is another. For Michael, he had both happen at the same time—worst-case scenario."
Charlotte exhaled, pressing her forehead into her palm for a moment before looking up again.
"Oh God… Michael. What has he done? What has he gotten himself into this time?"
"There is a silver lining, though…" Doctor Richards went on. "At least now we know how to protect him. We just have to keep him far away from sleeping pills. His body rejects them—he'll get dizzy, start vomiting, and it even messes with his breathing. For Michael, those pills are straight-up poison."
Charlotte's shoulders dropped briefly. She pressed her lips together, then nodded.
"Okay… okay, I hear you. No sleeping pills. Got it. Is that everything? Anything else?"
"Not much, honestly. Main thing is hydration—he needs three or four liters of water a day for the next few weeks. He's dehydrated. Plenty of protein and vitamins, too… but I'll write it all down. Other than that? I'm happy to discharge him. You can take your boy home."
Doctor Richards stood up.
Charlotte pushed her chair back. A soft scrape.
She smoothed her black blazer, flashing maroon cuffs. High-top curls brushed her faded sides.
Light from the window reflected off her medium-brown skin, her Aramaic–African American features glowing softly.
It traced the line of her narrow, pointed nose.
She stood—slim, poised, and ready.
Click.
Her black heels hit the floor.
"Why don't you follow me? I'll take you to his room. I think he's ready to see you."
"Thank you, doctor. Honestly… thank you. I don't know what I would've done."
Charlotte smiled, shaking the doctor's hand. Her fingers trembled slightly—he didn't notice.
They released the handshake. Moments later, they left the office, the doctor walking ahead.
[File 002 : Admission Letter]
Morning sun hit St. Clair Shores. Houses. Streets.
Air cool. Smelled of new flowers. Fresh-cut grass.
Birds sang in the trees. Soft wind shifted leaves. Shadows danced on the sidewalk. Cars in the distance. A dog barked, now and then.
Windows shone—bright, clear, like a spring morning.
The Myers house—warm red bricks. Light spilled across the front porch.
From the street. House stretched wide. Four bedroom windows. White trim framed each. Clouds reflected in the glass.
White picket fence. Clean. Bright paint gleamed across the yard.
Grass bright green. Freshly cut. Blades stood straight. Tiny drops of morning water sparkled on each.
Living room opened wide. Three couches curved in a half-circle. Conversation invited from every angle.
Black carpet in the middle. Soaked up sunbeams from the windows. Glass coffee table rested quietly on it.
Can of Coke rested on the table. Sweet scent mixed with sharp lemon of cleaning supplies.
Michelle sat alone on a couch. One leg tucked under her. Other foot tapped lightly on the carpet.
Other couch—Rose and Michelle's younger sister, Gloria.
Rose sat straight, back against the couch. Cushion sank more under her than under Gloria.
Gloria lay down, head on her mom's lap. Long hair fanned over Rose's thighs like a dark blanket. She stared at the ceiling. Bit her thumbnail gently. TV quieted—tiny clicks on polished nails.
"I'm seriously done with Sarah. Literally everything she does is just getting on my nerves today."
Michelle commented.
Arms folding tight across her chest. Eyes fixed on the TV screen. Jaw clenched.
She shifted sharply against the couch.
Rose laughed softly. She liked the show.
Tapered pixie cut framing her face. Side-swept fringe bouncing lightly against her forehead with each laugh.
Gloria just kept looking at the ceiling.
Doorbell rang. Loud. Bright. Cut through the TV noise.
Michelle and Rose looked at each other from their different couches. Rose's eyebrows lifted just a little.
"Can you get that?"
Rose asked. Eyes on Gloria. Rubbing her smooth, silky hair.
"I'll get it. "
Michelle said. A small huff escaped through her nose. She rose from the couch in one smooth motion.
Crop top barely shifted on her ribs. Loose polka-dot shorts hung straight from her hips. Thin, long dark braids swung forward, tapping lightly against her collarbone.
"And just so you know, it's not for Gloria—I'm just hoping there's a cute guy outside."
"Just go open the door!"
Rose rolled her eyes. Slow. Theatrical.
"I'm going, Mom!"
Michelle opened the door.
Her shoulder lined up almost exactly with the peephole. The one Rose always had to rise onto her toes to reach.
An Indian American delivery man stood there.
Black strap pressed a diagonal line across his chest. Velcro faintly separating. Faded navy T-shirt shifted slightly. Loose khaki shorts sagged comfortably at his hips.
"Ugh, definitely not cute!"
Michelle turned to head back to the couch.
"Michelle!"
Rose frowned. Her voice carried mild reproach from across the room.
Michelle stopped in her tracks. A sigh slipped out.
"Sorry, Mom!"
She turned back toward the delivery man waiting at the door.
"Hey! "
Mouth curved into a quick dimpled grin. Then flattened again.
"Good morning!"
The delivery man greeted. Calm. Slightly tired. Like someone who had already made many stops. He pulled a delivery receipt from his bag.
"I've got a package here for Gloria Myers."
Gloria screamed with excitement. She sat up fast. Hair brushed across Rose's face.
Black vest slid up a little. Bright strip of skin above her jeans. Jeans made a soft scratchy sound sliding off the couch.
She ran barefoot to the door. Feet slapped quickly against the cold floor. She bumped into Michelle. Michelle hit her back against the wall.
Not too hard.
Top of Gloria's head reached Michelle's neck.
"Hey! Watch it!"
Michelle scowled. Snapped her fingers. One thin dark brow arched sharply.
"Sorry!"
Gloria said, excited. Voice high. Shaky. Adrenaline buzzing.
"Let me see that!"
Gloria snatched the envelope from the delivery man's hand.
It said: "Gloria Myers."
Brows shot upward. Thin, dark, perfect arches. She tore the envelope open.
Rose picked up the TV remote from the coffee table. Volume dropped suddenly. Simmering pot in the kitchen grew louder.
Hands down. Stood up. Walked slowly toward the door. Pink fluffy trim around her feet brushed the carpet softly with each step.
Her bare arms glowed against the dark fabric of her dress. Skin warm and bright, catching the light along every curve.
"Morning!"
Rose greeted him with a small smile. Her head tilted slightly.
"Morning, ma'am. I just need a signature on this receipt. "
Rose signed the paper. Closed the door after he left. Lock clicked shut.
Gloria screamed. Jumped. Her long dark hair flew out, bounced over her shoulders. Each landing thudded softly on the floor.
"I'm way too old for all this drama."
Michelle shook her head. Dismissively raised her hand. Went back to sit. Couch creaked softly as she dropped onto it.
Returned to the TV show.
"Gloria, what's going on? What is it?"
Rose asked. Eyebrows lifted. A hint of a smile.
Gloria stopped jumping. Stopped screaming. She bit her lower lip to hold back another squeal. Chest rising and falling fast.
"Mom, oh my god, Mom!"
She tapped Rose's shoulder. Fingers drumming fast. Breath coming in short bursts.
"What is it?!"
Rose snatched the paper from her hand. Nails made a faint scratch against the page. Read the letter fast. Eyes darting back and forth.
"Oh! You actually got into Rysianthe Academy!"
Her voice cracked with sudden joy.
"Yes! Oh my god, yes!!"
Gloria screamed. Hugged her mom tightly. Big smile. White teeth sparkling with every word. She hugged so hard, Rose swayed a little.
"Aww, honey!"
Rose smiled. Eyes shiny. She patted Gloria's back in slow circles.
Gloria screamed again.
Michelle's jaw tightened. Sharp breath through her nose. Shoulders rose once. Dropped hard. Eyes on the TV. Eyebrows drawn together.
Gripped the remote too tightly. Pulled one knee up. Wrapped her arm around it. Rested her chin on her knee. Trying to block out all the noise.