Chapter 3: There Is No Spoon

Kate

It wasn’t the beeping that woke me.

It was the silence after—like the machines had stopped holding their breath.

My eyes opened to a too-white ceiling, humming fluorescent lights, and the antiseptic bite of gloves and soap. My throat burned. My arm ached beneath gauze. But I was here. Awake. Wherever “here” was.

Kara was in the chair next to my bed, folded halfway in on herself. When she heard me breathing, her head snapped up, eyes wet.

“Oh my God. You’re awake.” She pressed the call button. “You’re okay. Just… stay still. Don’t try to be brave.”

“What happened?” My voice rasped.

“You ran into the street. After Zee. Do you remember?”

A flicker: fur, street, tires, the sound, the impact.

“She’s okay?”

Kara nodded. “Of course. That dog’s immortal. Probably told the car, ‘Not today.’ You, on the other hand…”

Nurses poured in, flashing lights in my eyes, asking name, date, president. I answered hoarsely, through fog. Kara hovered, filling in when my voice broke.

When the room finally cleared, I noticed something in my hand—not the IV line, not tissues. Something cool, with weight. I opened my fingers.

A single yellow rose. Petals tipped with frost.

“Where’d this come from?”

Kara frowned. “It was here when I came in. I thought maybe a nurse…”

We both looked toward the door. Empty. On the tray, just Wanda’s cheerful arrangement of sunflowers. The rose, still cold, seemed foreign—like it had been carried from somewhere far away. Its stem left a faint chill against my palm. I closed my hand around it before anyone else could see.

“Was Kevin here?” I asked.

Kara froze. “What?”

“Wherever I was. I saw him. He called me Ba.”

Her mouth twitched. “No one calls you that except us.”

“He said not to go yet.”

I swallowed. The memory felt too fragile to say out loud.

“Then he looked at me and said…”

Kara leaned in.

“‘Think about who you want to be and be that person. There is no spoon.’”

I waited for her to laugh. She didn’t. Not right away.

Finally: “The Matrix? Seriously?”

“He said it like it was the real answer. Like both things belonged together—who you are and what’s real. And it felt… true. Like someone I’ve always missed.”

Kara leaned back. “God, if we start believing in ghost brothers, Mom’s Infant of Prague statue from Hopeland will probably start talking.”

“June and Dad…” I started.

“They’re in Hawaii,” she said. “I told them not to come back unless something changed.”

“Wow.”

“They’ll send thoughts and prayers. Or a pineapple. Maybe both.” A pause. “Also, they gave you the burial plot. Next to Mom. And Kevin.”

The words hung there.

“You know,” she added, softer now, “just in case you felt like staying dead.”

“…I knew.”

Kara’s head snapped toward me. “You what?”

“Dad gave me the title on Christmas… at your house. I just… never told you. I meant to…”

She didn’t speak. Just stared at the wall like it might offer a better answer than I could.

“Well.” She exhaled. “Merry effin’ Christmas, I guess.”

My eyes filled, but before I could say anything, Kara softened. “You’re not going anywhere. Not yet. Too much left to say. Too many people to haunt. And Zee would never forgive you.”

A bark echoed down the hall.

Kara grinned. “Thought she would wake you up. Told them she’s a therapy dog. Which is technically true. If anyone needs therapy…”

The door opened, and there she was—Zee, tail wagging like she’d been waiting her whole life for this moment. Her paws hit the mattress, and suddenly she was curled against me, warm, real, impossibly alive, squealing like this was the happiest she had ever been.

I buried my face in her fur.

The yellow rose was still in my hand.

Kevin’s words echoed again: Think about who you want to be. There is no spoon.

I held Zee tighter.

Maybe I already was.

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Interlude: The Gate That Wasn’t

We tried leaving her on the porch “just for a minute.”

Two steps down the walk, the latch clicked. Zee shouldered the gate like it was a suggestion and trotted out, chin up, ears forward—pure purpose in motion. She slid between Kara and me without breaking stride, matching our pace like she’d trained us for this: left, right, left—the three of us a small parade.

I glanced down; she didn’t look back. She didn’t need to. Her job was obvious: keep the pack together, get the girls where they’re going, make sure no one walks alone.

By the corner, we weren’t mad anymore. We never stayed mad at Zee. You can’t scold the part of you that refuses to be left behind.