Read Online A Season for Fireflies by Rebecca Maizel - Free Book Online Page B

choking. I’m choking but I’m not underwater. Something blocks my throat. Dad, help me!
    Heat shoots through my arm, through my veins.
    A nurse points at me. Red fingernail polish—like blood.
    â€œShe’s coming out . . .” a deep voice says. The sound is unbalanced. Strong at first then it fades. “Penny? Please stand back. Stand back. ” The voice moves away from me.
    â€œPenny . . . can you hear me?” Dad’s voice.
    My eyelashes shield my eyes from the light so it can’t come all the way through. I want to see Dad. My right foot is fat and swollen. I want someone to rest ice on my foot.
    â€œPenny, I love you. You’re okay. It’s Dad.”
    I blink away the fractured canary light. Dad drifts into view. The top of his bald head is shiny.
    â€œPenny. I want you to nod if you can hear me,” Dad says.
    â€œVitals look good .” There is the deep voice again, fading away.
    It is not Wes’s deep voice. Where is Wes? I just saw him. Didn’t I?
    â€œHeart rate normal,” Deep Voice says.
    â€œPenny—” Dad.
    Clear sound.
    â€œNod if you—”
    Clearish.
    â€œCan hear me . . .”
    Like there’s a shell over my ear.
    I raise my chin a little up and down. My neck is so stiff. My cheeks are tight.
    â€œThat’s good, Penny Pen,” Dad says. “Real good.”
    Someone’s squeezing my fingers. I turn my head and when I do, an accordion unfolds in my neck. Mom stands by the bed and holds my fingers in hers.
    â€œM—” I try to push sounds out of my mouth. “M—” Something blocks them.
    She wears a pink sweater.
    Beyond her, the sunset drips down a high-rise building. Mom is backlit in tangerine. The light bleeds from the glass to her sweater. She rests her hand on my arm and I reach to lay my fingers over hers.
    There’s a tug on my skin. I squint.
    An IV digs into the top of my hand.
    Mom sits down next to me, drawing half the weight of the bed toward her. I press down on the sheets. With a bolt there is a sharp pain , deep in the center of my palm.
    I cry out, hunching over. I can’t make it stop. It radiates, it needles. My fingers are stuck straight—too straight. I want to curl them but can’t.
    Like a wrench. Like a vise. The middle of my palm pulses.
    Deep Voice is next to me talking very fast, but I don’t know what he’s saying. Someone applies pressure to my fingers, prying them apart.
    â€œIs that a seizure?” Dad asks. “Is she having a seizure?”
    The strong hands keep pushing against my fingers. Pain tears through me. The muscles in my hand pulse, again and again, until—finally—they release.
    I collapse back down on the bed. I didn’t even know I wassitting up until the muscles in my back unclench.
    Mom wipes some sweat from my forehead. Her fingertips are soft.
    â€œWell, is it?” Dad asks. “Some kind of seizure?”
    â€œNo,” Deep Voice says. A doctor? He’s wearing a white coat that says Abrams , but my vision is blurry and smeared and I lose focus. I blink hard. The doctor bends down to the side of the bed and, after meeting my eyes, he looks to the ceiling.
    â€œCan you switch the light off?” he calls to someone.
    The brightness of the room falls to a muted orange light. The name on his coat shifts into focus, and now I can clearly see the dark cursive stitched onto the pocket . Neurology Resident.
    â€œPenny.” Dr. Abrams speaks in an even tone. “You’re in Providence Memorial. You were struck by lightning two days ago. Your left side was hit. I know it sounds opposite, but where you were hit seems to be affecting your right hand. The spasm you experienced in your right hand is because your brain is sending too many signals to your hand. It should equalize soon.”
    He’s talking too fast. Struck by lightning? Providence Memorial? Brain signals?
    I’m in the