“You can ration what you have.”
My whole body went hot.
“You know I can’t.”
Dad sighed like I was being unreasonable. “The concert is once in a lifetime, Ava.”
Insulin is lifetime, I wanted to say. The whole point is that I need it every single day.
But I was already shaking too hard to think clearly.
Over the next forty-eight hours, I tried to stretch what I had left. Smaller corrections. Less food. Constant water. Fear sitting metallic at the back of my throat. By Saturday night, my vision blurred whenever I stood. By Sunday morning, I was vomiting. My parents said I was overreacting from stress. By Sunday afternoon, I collapsed in the hallway outside my bedroom.
The next thing I remember is a paramedic shouting my blood sugar levels and someone saying the words diabetic coma.
And while I lay in the ICU trying to wake up, my parents still believed the worst thing they had done was upset me over a concert.
They had no idea what I would do once I opened my eyes.
