I hate couches. If I had a single reason for wanting to transition, not waking up with several sets of eyes staring at me would be it. Sleep peeping is creepy, right?

They instantly look away, pretending their proximity is coincidental. Everyone except Derry. He’s listening to every thought in my head. While I can’t return the favor, him pinching the bridge of his nose is a dead giveaway. Emotional status: annoyed.

My squeakers offer a retaliatory bark upon hitting the linoleum. “Waiting room?”

“Family room,” Derry counters.

Ryan’s absence is expected. He’ll be checking on my mother. Part of me wishes the others were with him or just gone, period. Privacy would be nice, but I ceded that right the moment I traded rationale for sentiment. Robot, I miss you.

After a few strained moments of silence, Ryan enters the room. If Mom was permanently damaged, he’d be sympathetic instead of the salty ocean current intent on thrashing me to and fro. Seasick, ahoy.

“Will you allow us a moment?”

They all file out, taking their long faces with them. Some are worried, some are angry, and Tally looks positively bored from the back of the room, well away from the group. All the Sumairs and Solathairs in my life have come, though the reunion is shamefully lacking in celebratory components. No cake. There will never be cake.

Ryan’s the nominated intervention leader, but he won’t get further than the rest. I’m not giving up despite the setback. Was acting emotionally a smart idea? Heh, no. Should I have utilized more caution in my experiment? Yeah, I should’ve brought Tally in. Do I regret the brief bliss before it all went wonky? Not even a little bit. Hard lessons club, founding member.

I fold my arms across my chest like a petulant child. No amount of chastising will make me believe my actions were wrong. My foot tapping is probably excessive, but it doesn’t stop me from caving to the immature impulse.

Where did I go wrong? Whew, what a monster list. Okay, let’s narrow it down. Where did I go the most wrong? I hadn’t predicted her fear. I should have. A hovering sleep peeper and various life-support wires tethering her to the bed induced a panic attack that we, unfortunately, had the displeasure of sharing. See, Folks. Sharing is not caring.

“You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met. Next time will be easier. I removed the trach.”

What, no swashpocalypse? After I virtually put myself in a coma to bring her out of hers, I figured he’d whisk her to a no-admittance room, where I’d have to utilize more creative means to be near her. I didn’t anticipate ongoing support.

“We’ll have to hide this from the specialists. It shouldn’t be difficult since they’re apprised of your father’s decision. If they discover the extraction, they’ll assume it’s a logical step to her finality.”

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

“You took it out?” I’m having trouble registering what he’s done.

“I did.” He smiles, and there’s no mistaking the warmth in the gesture. “The decannulation was a success. My biggest concern is how I’ll hide the incision point. It usually takes several weeks to heal. With my advanced therapy, it’s completely sealed. If I can keep them from interfering for that long, we’re in the clear.”

A new fear rears its ugly head. “How will she breathe?”

“She’s breathing on her own now, Sheyla. She’ll be able to talk next time.”

“Next time,” I echo.

I didn’t consider how Mom would communicate. Trach talking requires professional training. I should’ve brought Derry and his ant army. So many mistakes.

My left eye twitches. “Is she still...” She was convulsing on the bed, muscles jerking and arms flailing. It wasn’t a peaceful awakening.

“She’s resting. She isn’t conscious. Her being conscious calls for an uninterrupted flow of energy from you. It’s a double-edged sword. Direct contact gives her too much, but not touching her means whatever is wrong will persist. I’m not sure how to sync her essence with her body. She’s trying to be in two places at once.”

“Is that her specialty? Is it stunted due to inadequate supply?” Any of us would experience diminished output without sufficient input. We can do special things only at the cost of using our energy.

Our gifts, while elementally linked, vary in presentation. The Sentry is the only exception with their shapeshifting. As I converted Mom into a Fire Sumair, her power could resemble mine, or she could display something unique.

“I won’t tell you to stop your experiment. What I will tell you is you need to take a step back. You’re too emotionally invested in your results to think objectively,” he warns. “You need some separation.”

He’s right, but I won’t be able to stop myself if she might speak to me. What will she say? Will she recognize me? Will she remember being Supermom?

I blow out an unsteady breath. “Can I see her?”

“Of course.”

It should be a welcome walk, but the closer I get, the more the walls narrow. My heart expands, constricting my lungs when I step inside her room.

She lies on the bed, appearing the same as she always has. Forever sleeping. Does she want to see me? Does she want to experience the connection I haven’t ever dared to hope for? Waking her up brought her bad dream to life, so I’m hesitant to take her back to that dark place. While there are questions to ask, I’m scared of the answers. Will she be disappointed by what I might become? Will she regret saving me?

Ryan’s right. My rationalization crawled into the scrap pile with my dysfunctional robot.

This feels different.

I feel different.

I feel.

My emotional maturation takes me off guard. I’m not used to questioning my feelings or even having feelings to question. What I’m used to is burning them out before they become a flame-induced misfortune. The last few months have shown me that while my mind is overly developed, my emotional processors are barely pubescent. Lots of growing to do.

Fixing my mother means nostalgic detachment. I can’t be her daughter and savior, who ironically is also her killer. I can’t afford another mistake. This is my last opportunity to save her. I can’t fail. I won’t.

Ryan kisses away a tear. “Are you ready?”

How can I not be ready? I already marched myself into her room, committed to waking her, and succeeded. A second attempt will be buffered by preventative measures, and I’m ninety-nine percent sure it’ll work, yet I can’t bring myself to take the few remaining steps to her bed. What if she’s stricken with regret for letting me live in her stead? What if she blames me for not living up to all she hoped I’d be? What if she hates me? Worse, what if she feels nothing for me at all?