The Exit Plan
620 Words
The hospital ceiling tiles had started talking to me.
Okay, not literally. But after staring at them for thirteen days, you start to wonder if they’re blinking Morse code about your life. Maybe one tile was saying “RUN.” Another blinked, “STAY.” The one by the vent—my favorite—just shrugged. Same.
Mama Deka caught me mid-stare that morning, a faint smile tugging at her lips as she fluffed my now freshly braided hair. She’d spent hours the day before threading it with practiced fingers and soft hums, like she was braiding courage into my scalp.
I sat on the edge of the bed, sneakers laced like I had somewhere to be. I didn’t.
Or so I thought.
“Mama,” I said, voice barely above the hum of a nearby ECG machine. “Can I come stay with you?”
She paused, mid-sip of her thermos chai. Her brow arched.
“I mean, just for a while. Just until... I get on my feet or figure something out.” I couldn’t say the real reason out loud: *I’m scared Mr. Fast and Furious might show up again and I might actually punch him in the throat.* Or worse, cry.
Her smile faded into something softer. Sadder.
“Eh, my girl. If it were up to me, I’d say yes before you even finish the question,” she said, reaching for my hand. “But this thing—your case—it’s not in my hands. There are people watching. The hospital, the police, even immigration maybe. You’re not forgotten, you’re just... pending.”
Pending.
Like a lost parcel with no label. A girl with no name.
“But I don’t want to see him again,” I blurted. “I don’t want to go with him. What if he just disappears again?”
As if summoned by my panic, the door creaked open.
I turned.
There he was.
Feddie.
Walking in like an unpaid debt—clean cut, chest peeking through a half-buttoned shirt, jaw freshly shaven like he was trying too hard *not* to try too hard. Behind him, Doctor Wekesa trailed in with a clipboard, trying to look neutral and failing.
“Good morning,” the doctor said brightly. Too brightly. “We have good news.”
I didn’t answer.
“Your tests came back. Physically, you’re strong. The bruises have healed well, and your memory... well, that may take longer. But there’s no medical reason to keep you here.”
I blinked.
“Are you saying... I’m discharged?”
Doctor Wekesa nodded. “Yes.”
I looked at Feddie. He looked at me.
His gaze didn’t flinch.
“You’re coming with me,” he said.
My mouth opened. Nothing came out. My eyes darted to Mama Deka, silently screaming *say something!* But her face held the calm of someone who’d already made peace with this ending.
“Is that... allowed?” I finally asked.
“Hospital says yes,” the doctor answered. “You don’t have family. He’s been covering your bills, signed responsibility forms. It’s either that or... social services.”
Social services. The words dropped like cold water in my chest.
I stared at Feddie again, searching for something in his face. A crack. An apology. A clue.
Nothing. Just that damn calm.
He offered a hand. “Ready?”
No.
Absolutely not.
I should say no. I should shout, scream, break a tray of hospital Jell-O over his perfect head.
Instead…
My fingers moved before my brain did.
I took his hand.
Mama Deka’s whisper followed me as we walked out of the ward:
“Sometimes, the road you fear is the one that takes you home.”
- Writer
