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82: GLASS TRUST

Sprinting to my mom’s hospital room is the fastest I have ran in my entire life, in flip flips and a tight dinner dress.

I burst through the doors and careen to a halt, relief flooding through me in comforting waves. I never thought hearing these damned beeping machines would be reassuring, but they are. Mom is in bed, still unconscious, still stuck in a limbo between sleep and death. And Lexie’s braids are still intact; two ropes on either sides of her face.

Wilma passes me and reaches mom, pressing her fingers to the pulse on her neck as if to make sure everything is okay, and then double-checking the machines. She sighs in relief, her shoulders slumping as she sinks into the chair near the bed, and closes her eyes.

Mom is okay.

Well, not exactly okay, but nothing bad has happened to her overnight. Not like Lexie. For now.

The door behind me creaks open and I whir around on my feet, ready to jump into action and very much on my guard, but the creased face of the doctor looks back at
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