Free A Season for Fireflies by Rebecca Maizel Page A

want you to say a sentence. I know it will be hard. But I want you to say a full sentence— any sentence.”
    â€œW-Wi—”
    I grimace. Say it. Form the words.
    â€œW—will . . .” I exhale. My lips, like my cheeks, feel swollen and hard. “Will I . . . be-be . . . okay?” I finally say.
    Mom wipes away a tear. Dad lowers his head and turns away toward the door. Dr. Abrams’s eyes wrinkle at the corners when he smiles.
    â€œYour motor skills will return. And that sentence,” the doctor speaks softly, “was a real test. To see where we are at with your speech. It’ll only get better as the days go on.”
    I’m not sure how he can say that when vines scrawl all over me.
    â€œThese are called Lichtenberg figures,” he explains when he sees my gaze go back to the designs. “The leafy, plant-like markings will fade in a few days.”
    The branches spread over my forearms, up to my biceps and shoulders. They stop near my neck.
    â€œYou’re actually quite lucky,” the doctor says. “Some peoplehave them on their face. But then again, those people don’t usually live to tell the tale.”
    Another doctor, tall with a shock of red hair, takes photographs of my arms. I blink away the spots of light from the flash, but the bright light burns on the backs of my eyelids.
    â€œPut that away,” Mom snaps at the resident. “It hurts her eyes.”
    â€œW-w-wha-what are they?” I ask.
    â€œEssentially, they’re much like bruises,” Dr. Abrams explains. “They generally fade in a few hours, sometimes days. We have seen some cases of them lasting months; we call that tattooing. Either way, they will go away.” With a light pat on my hand, the doctor turns to the nurse.
    â€œLet’s get a CBC, baseline blood work, then let’s get some real food into her,” Dr. Abrams says.
    â€œMom?” I get out through stutters. “Was that—” I have to take a breath. “M-m-m-May at the door?”
    Mom’s eyebrows draw together.
    â€œMay?” she says, and there’s something in her tone that makes me nervous.
    I really try hard not to stutter. “May,” I say again to clarify.
    Dr. Abrams says something quickly to Mom. He keeps his back to me so the sound is uneven and I can’t work out what he’s saying.
    â€œNo, honey, that was Kylie.” She nods at me and smiles to be encouraging.
    Kylie. I don’t know a Kylie. Do I?
    I must frown because Mom sits down on the edge of the bed.
    â€œYour friend Kylie—” Mom looks to Dad. “What’s her last name?”
    â€œCasseni? Castelli? Or something like that,” Dad replies. This conversation is moving too fast.
    â€œBut, M-Ma-May,” I say again.
    â€œYou and May haven’t been friends for a while. Kylie is your best friend now,” Mom explains. “It’s been you and Kylie for a year or so now.”
    I don’t understand. My mouth tastes bitter and I want to grip the blanket again but my hands are too weak. I squeeze my eyes shut. I want my friends to be here. I want Wes, Karen, May, and Panda. Why don’t I know what anyone is talking about?
    Dad sits down on the other side of the bed next to me. I focus on his glasses. The frames are thick plastic, different from his usual wire rims.
    â€œWhen did you c—ch-change your glasses?” I ask. Dad looks back at the doctor and then at me. He usually has a glimmer of mischief in his eye, but right now there’s nothing.
    â€œPenny, what day is it?” Dad asks. I don’t like this. I search my memory. Of course I know what day it is. Tech week was starting on that Saturday so Taft was completely on edge. The doctor said it had been two days since the strike.
    â€œMonday?”
    â€œWhat month?” Dad asks.
    The bed is hard. I don’t like the bright light of the sunset in the corner of my eye. I need more