You are broken, they say it with too-bright smiles and too-gentle hands. They're waiting, waiting for you to do. The nurses scrub everything away, they say things about germs but you think it's so they don't have to see ghosts, like you. You see them in the form of stuffed toys named after dead friends, and grief that has no name.
The poison with make you better, they promise. But the truth is in their eyes.
You are eight years old and you are going to die.