“Catherine Victoria Christie. Sixteen-year-old female suffering from an anaphylactic reaction.” The paramedic’s kind voice filled my foggy mind, telling me we finally made it to the hospital. “She was originally taken to urgent care, but she collapsed after treatment.”

I snuggled under my plain, white blanket and listened to the gurney’s wheels, while it scratched up against the hospital’s entrance hallway. If my eyes weren’t swollen shut, then that would have helped my anxiety, but no. I was neurotic, and I had every right to be.

Stay calm, Victoria, I thought to myself, as the chilly outside weather switched to even chillier inside weather. Think about your stories. Think about Through the Wormhole. This stupid reaction interfered with Daniel Matton’s whole blast off process.

Dawg gone, it all! I knew I should have never taken that pill! I should have stopped after the first outbreak of hives, but Mom just had to make sure it wasn’t the pill causing the reaction. At least this got me out of my horrible History test grade, which Mom snapped at me about merely two hours earlier.

My eyes still swollen shut, I weakly asked my new friend, “Where am I?” As if I didn’t know already, but I wanted to confirm.

“You’re in the Emergency Room, baby.” I recognized Dad’s voice anywhere, as any child should.

Mom set her hand down on my hive-covered skin, which burned with an unusual fire. “We’re here.”

The reaction came as a shock to all of us, since Mom and Dad never got my medical records when they adopted me. It was strange to hear my parents scared, but they definitely were.

The gurney’s wheels hopped over a bump in the path. Powerful hands grabbed either side of me and lifted me off it. I felt like I hit the ground, but then I realized it was just a hospital bed.

“I should have brought her here immediately after she started to show symptoms.” Mom’s voice was torn. Was that a sniff I heard? I couldn’t see her, but I knew Mom hid behind her hand.

It wasn’t your fault, Mom. I’m here, I’m alive, and that’s all that matters. I did not have the guts to say that out loud. Of course, what teenager liked to tell their parents they loved them, anyway?

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The same kind voice from before said, “Temps at 103°F.”

“God,” was the only word that left Dad’s lips. It was all too clear he, too, was trying to comprehend everything.

Don’t worry, Mom and Dad. I’m okay. It’s a little hard to breathe, but that’s it.

I inhaled and exhaled several times, hoping that would make it easier to catch my breaths.

“How’s your breathing?” asked the paramedic. She rested her palm on my sweaty brow.

“I’m okay,” I explained. Heck, if I survived twenty-four hours on the doorstep of frigid Russia, then there was no way I couldn’t survive this, too.

Think about writing, Vika. You’re not neurotic when you write. In fact, it’s one of the best ways to keep you calm. Daniel Matton should pay a visit to a hospital, too. That will help me, in terms of never forgetting this.

“I have to pee,” I complained, shuffling uncomfortably on the bed. No teenager was shy to say the word “pee”.

“You do?” asked that wonderful paramedic. “Okay. Mom and Dad, do you think you can step out for a sec?”

Dad made haste to leave the room. I heard his powerful feet clomping the ground like horseshoes.

Mom, on the other hand, took her time.

The room smelled fresh. I expected it to be like in movies and TV shows: smelly and dangerous, but that was not the case at all. The temp was just right. There was not a scent of a decaying body in the corner… only one experiencing an anaphylactic reaction.

The paramedic did not leave my side.

I wondered if she had kids of her own.

She placed a bucket under my genitalia and asked, “So, I heard you like to write? Is that true?”

The bucket was cold. It felt like a carton of ice that just came out of the freezer. It was my duty to break that ice.

“Yes, I love to write,” I answered, as relief washed over me. I let go of all that anxious urine I held back for the past hour. “I’m writing a story right now about a boy who goes time traveling.”

“Ooh. Would you mind telling me about it?” The paramedic set the bucket down and rested her arms on the side of the bed.

I chuckled. “I’ll go into a huge explanation if I do.” Which was true. It was not uncommon for me to rant on and on about my stories when I started to tell people about them.

I had to hurt my characters more. They needed to feel the sting of life, too. Daniel Matton would be first.

The paramedic took my hand in hers. She rubbed her thumb across my skin. “We’re going to get you away from those drugs.”

Thank you.

Daniel Matton, I’m sorry, but I know what change I’m going to make to your story. Will I let you survive? I’m not sure. Let’s let you decide.

The ringing in my ears, which happened when I got excited about writing, returned. Nothing, not even a little anaphylactic reaction, was going to stop me from pursuing my passion.

The only question was, just how much longer would I be a writer, before I gave up the hobby forever? Only time would tell.