Consciousness returned in fragments. First, the sterile, antiseptic smell. Then, the soft beep of a monitor. Martin opened his eyes to the blurry white ceiling of a hospital room.

  His gaze drifted toward the open door. There, in the hallway, stood Loria in quiet, intense conversation with a doctor in a white coat. Her posture was rigid, her face pale under the harsh fluorescent lights.

  He turned his head slowly, a dull ache pulsing behind his eyes. To his right, a clear IV line snaked from a bag down to a needle taped to the back of his hand. Hospital. Definitely.

  To his left, he saw Andella, his mother. She sat in a chair, her head bowed, one hand resting on the shoulder of a dozing Sadie, who was slumped in the seat beside her, still in her ballet costume.

  Sadie stirred, her eyelids fluttering open. For a drowsy second, her gaze was unfocused, then it landed on him. Her eyes widened.

  “Mum,” she whispered, her voice raspy with sleep. She nudged Andella. “Martin’s awake.”

  Andella’s head snapped up. In an instant, she was at his bedside, her cool hands cradling his face. “Martin? Sweetheart, how are you feeling?”

  “Okay, I think,” he mumbled, his own voice sounding strange and thick. “Just… tired.”

  “Is your chest okay now?” Andella pressed, her fingers brushing his forehead. “Does your head hurt?”

  He managed a weak chuckle. “I’m fine, Mum. Really.” It was a lie. He felt hollowed out and fragile, like glass that had been cracked and hastily glued back together.

  Out in the hall, the conversation ended. The doctor gave a curt nod and walked away. Loria turned from the doorway, her expression taut. She brought a hand up, pinching the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger, her eyes squeezed shut for a long moment. Then she saw him watching.

  The mask of composure slid into place. She hurried to his other side, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. “You’re awake. Thank goodness. How do you feel?”

  “I’m okay,” he repeated, the phrase becoming a useless mantra. He looked from Loria’s strained smile to Andella’s worried eyes. “What did the doctor say? What’s wrong with me?”

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  The question landed in the room like a stone. Loria’s gaze darted to Andella, a silent, desperate plea for support. Andella looked back, her lips pressed into a thin line, saying nothing.

  “They… they’re still running some tests,” Loria finally said, her voice carefully measured. “Nothing’s been confirmed yet. We just need to wait for—”

  The door burst open. Martin’s father, Mr. Cologna, stood there breathing heavily, still in his office suit—trousers, white shirt, tie askew. He’d clearly run all the way.

  “I came as soon as they called,” he said, his eyes sweeping the room before locking on Loria. “Is he alright?” He moved to Martin’s bedside, his large hand coming to rest gently on his son’s shoulder.

  Martin looked at the three anxious faces surrounding him—his father, his birth mother and the woman taking care of him now. A nervous laugh bubbled out of him. “What’s with the crowd? Why is everyone so stressed? I just fainted.”

  “Thank goodness you’re alright,” his father breathed, the words heavy with relief.

  “Martin, don’t worry,” Andella said, smoothing his blanket. “We’re all here because we love you. That’s all.”

  As if summoned by her lie, the doctor reappeared in the doorway. “Mr. and Mrs. Cologna?” he said, his tone formal.

  A small, awkward ballet ensued. Both Andella and Loria stood up alongside Mr. Cologna. The doctor’s eyes flicked between the two women, confused.

  “Umm…”

  Andella flushed. “Sorry,” she murmured, clearing her throat and sitting back down. But she was on her feet again instantly, her chin raised. “Wait. I’m his mother. I’m definitely coming too.”

  Without another word, the three adults—a tangled unit of shared worry and separate roles—followed the doctor out, leaving Martin and Sadie alone in the quiet room.

  Martin turned to his sister. Her face was a storm cloud, her earlier disappointment from the competition now mingled with a deeper, more confused fear.

  “Hey,” he said softly. “How’d it go out there?”

  “It was great,” she mumbled, not meeting his eyes.

  “I’m sorry I missed it. I promised I’d watch you win.”

  “Don’t bother. I didn’t come first anyway.”

  “What? Really?” Martin pushed himself up a little, ignoring the protest in his muscles. “With that performance? I was sure you’d take first. Or, like, zeroeth place if it existed.”

  A ghost of a smile touched her lips. “Thanks. I came fifteenth.”

  “Fifteenth?” Martin feigned impressed contemplation. “Sadie, that’s nothing to be upset about. Being the fifteenth-best Under-13 ballet dancer in all of Woodblock is huge. This city is massive.”

  She finally looked at him, her expression deadpan. “Martin. There were only fifteen contestants.”

  “Oh.” His forced enthusiasm deflated. His smile softened into something more genuine, more tired. “Is that why you look like you lost your favorite leotard?”

  “I’m not down,” she insisted, though her eyes were glossy. “Do I look down?”

  He studied her face. “Do you still think you can be a pro? A real dancer?”

  She hesitated, then gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. “Yes.”

  “Then keep at it,” he said, his voice firm. “Hard work and determination. That’s all it takes. Stay strong, okay? And promise me this—next competition, I’ll be there, and I’ll watch you come in first. Deal?”

  She sniffed, then nodded again, more firmly. “Alright. I’ll do my best.”

  “Good.” He reached out and poked her cheek. “Now wipe that look off your face. You’re starting to look like me, and that’s a tragic fate for anyone.”

  “Ewww!” she yelped, her despair momentarily shattered. She scrubbed at her face vigorously with her hands. “I don’t want to look like you! Ever!”

  A real, fragile laugh escaped him. For a moment, the sterile room, the IV line, the whispered conversation in the hall, all of it receded. There was just his sister, being melodramatic about her face.

  But the laughter died quickly, smothered by the heavy silence waiting just outside the door, and by the unspoken answer to the question that hung in the air, thick as the hospital smell:

  What’s wrong with me?