CLAIRE ANDERSON
The hospital room smells like antiseptic and fear, a combination that's become nauseatingly familiar over the past four days. I sit beside my grandmother's bed, watching her chest rise and fall with each shallow breath, and I feel like I'm drowning in slow motion. The machines beep and hum around us, their rhythmic sounds the only thing that reminds me she's still alive, still fighting, still here. Emily's face is pale against the white pillow, her grey hair loose and wild, her weathered hands limp at her sides. She looks so small, so fragile, and I hate myself for not being able to protect her.
The medical bills are stacked on the bedside table like a growing monument to my failure. I've been taking extra shifts at the convenience store, working double shifts until my f
