I Froze to Death While You Argued A Child’s Ghost Tells the Truth

My parents remarried, each starting new families with stepchildren older than me.

They always told me to be sensible. To learn to take care of myself.

Today I have a fever. The thermometer reads 101.8°F.

My vision blurs from the heat. I use my kids' smartwatch to call them.

Mom tells me to call Dad instead—she's at school dealing with something for my stepsister.

Dad tells me to call Mom instead—he's in the countryside visiting relatives with my stepbrother.

I say okay, like the good girl I am, and walk alone into the freezing cold.

Maybe they'll never know.

Children who are too well-behaved leave quietly.

So quietly that no one hears them go.

1.

I live alone in the old bungalow my parents built when they were still married.

It's tiny—just one bedroom, a cramped kitchen, and a bathroom so small I can barely turn around.

Last night's instant noodle cup still sits on the table, waiting to be thrown away.

I curl up under my blanket, counting the cracks in the wall.

My feet went numb hours ago. My fingers ache from the cold.

I remember the little space heater Mom gave me two years ago.

"Use it when winter gets cold," she said.

I never turned it on. Not once.

Because I know electricity costs money.

And they always taught me that living alone means learning to save.

I drag myself out of bed and find the unopened box in the corner.

I tear it open, pull out the heater, plug it in.

Nothing. No warmth. No glow.

I crouch on the floor, trying to figure out what's wrong.

But I don't know how to fix it. I don't have any tools.

So I pack it back into the box and return it to the corner.

It's not that cold. I can tough it out.

I crawl back under the covers, but I've overestimated how much cold I can take.

By the time the sky begins to lighten, my head feels thick and heavy.

Then I remember what Dad taught me.

When you feel sick, take your temperature.

I dig the thermometer out from the back of my drawer.

Shake it hard. Tuck it under my arm.

When I pull it out: 101.3°F.

So I do have a fever...

I lie back down, but sleep won't come.

I hold on like this for two more hours.

Three times I get up to pour myself water. Each time I spill some because my hands won't stop shaking.

I try reciting multiplication tables. Passages from my textbooks. Anything to distract myself.

But the numbers and words tangle together in my head, blurring into nothing.

I check my temperature again.

I stare at the number for a long time.

102.2°F.

Fear grips me.

What happens if the fever keeps climbing?

What if I never see Mom and Dad again?

I reach for the smartwatch on my pillow.

They bought it for me together, back in third grade.

I've treasured it ever since. Used it all these years.

I call Mom first.

It rings several times before she picks up.

"Mom, I have a fever."

My voice comes out so hoarse I barely recognize it.

"What? Oh..." Mom sounds distracted, rushed. "I'm at school with your sister right now—she got into a fight with a classmate, and the teacher called me in. Can you try your dad?"

In the background, I hear another voice. My stepsister. She sounds annoyed.

Then I hear Mom say to her: "Look at your little sister—so well-behaved, never gives me any trouble."

"You're this old and still causing problems."

Something in my chest twists. Sharp. Sudden.

"Mom, I really don't feel well..."

I try one more time.

"Be good, sweetie. Call your dad first. I'll call you back as soon as I'm done here, okay?"