I rub a hand over my chest, thinking about the flowers and balloons that were in my hospital room when I woke up. All the food that’s filled my fridge and the low voices I hear when I’m locked in my bedroom. I thought I was losing my mind at first, but the noises turned out to be my teammates—again, according to my mom. They sit in the living room for five, six hours. Sometimes there are hushed conversations. Sometimes I hear video games being played on my TV. Other times—most times—it’s quiet. They don’t try to get me to come out, but I know they’re there. And it makes me cry into my pillow.
