The impact felt like a sledgehammer. My head slammed against the window. Glass shattered. The world spun. The airbag slammed into my chest, knocking the breath out of me. My ears rang.
Voices came from outside. “Don’t move, ma’am. We’re calling for help.”
I wanted to speak, but my mouth felt full of cotton. My left shoulder screamed, and a metallic taste filled my mouth—I had bitten my tongue.
Paramedics arrived fast. One leaned in. “Your name?”
I gave it along with my address. He asked if anyone should be notified. My mind went straight to someone from my unit. Not Natalie.
They lifted me onto a stretcher, stabilized my neck, and loaded me into the ambulance. I stared at the ceiling panels as they attached an IV. The siren wailed, and the city streaked past the rear doors.
I wasn’t focused on the truck or the damage to my car. I was thinking about how, in less than twenty-four hours, I’d gone from quietly managing my aunt’s inheritance to being strapped into an ambulance, headed to a military hospital with no idea how many people would find out where I was by day’s end.
The paramedics’ questions faded as they wheeled me through the hospital doors. The antiseptic smell hit before the bright lights did. They brought me into an exam room, hooked me up to monitors, and began cutting away my shirt to check for injuries. My shoulder throbbed sharply as the cold scissors grazed my skin.
A nurse with a no-nonsense voice introduced herself as Denise. She asked me to rate my pain from one to ten. I said nine, maybe nine and a half, and she gave me something through the IV that dulled it almost immediately.
X-rays came next. My collarbone was fractured, two ribs were cracked, and the concussion promised a pounding headache for days.
While the doctor issued orders, my mind drifted—not to the truck or hospital bills, but back years, to the kitchen table where Natalie and I learned early how to push each other’s buttons. Only two years apart, we might as well have been from different planets.
I brought home perfect report cards and letters from coaches. Natalie could charm anyone and make friends instantly, but rules were optional in her eyes.
Our parents tried to keep balance. When I earned an award, Natalie got a day out with Mom. When she got in trouble, I was drawn into the family talk so no one felt singled out. But it never worked. Natalie kept a mental scoreboard, and I was always ahead in her mind.
By high school, she was skipping classes, sneaking out, and telling everyone I was the boring one. I didn’t mind—until she started spreading rumors to my friends. That’s when I realized her competitiveness wasn’t harmless.
When I enlisted in the Air Force at nineteen, Natalie bet I’d come crawling back in a year. She put a hundred dollars on it. I made it through basic training—and then some. I never saw that hundred.
Now, lying on a hospital bed staring at ceiling tiles as the medical team worked, those old patterns lingered. If she found out about my inheritance, she wouldn’t think, Good for Colleen. She’d think, How do I get my share?
Denise returned with a clipboard.
“We’re admitting you for observation,” she said. “At least overnight, maybe a couple of days.”
I didn’t argue. Sitting up made the room tilt.
She settled me in a two-bed room, the other empty. Adjusting my IV, she said to buzz if I needed anything.
I reached for my phone, instinctively texting someone from my unit who understood discretion. Chief Master Sergeant Boyd, a mentor and friend, got the message: I was in Charleston Memorial’s military wing.
He replied quickly. Need me there?
Not yet, I told him.
The door opened, and I tensed. Not Natalie—just a hospital tech checking vitals. He chatted about the weather, took my blood pressure, and left. Quiet returned.
My mind drifted to the last real conversation with Natalie, years ago at a family barbecue. She’d jabbed about how “real jobs” didn’t involve wearing a uniform and living off the government. I laughed then, but later told her she could keep her opinions to herself. She didn’t.
A knock pulled me from memory.
Denise poked her head in. “You’ve got a visitor,” she said, not asking permission.
Natalie walked in like she owned the place, wearing a sundress and sunglasses pushed into her hair. Her first words weren’t, Are you okay?
“But I heard you were in a crash.”
“Yeah,” I said.
She scanned the room—the empty bed, the IV stand, the monitor beeping.
“You’re really milking this, huh?”
I ignored it. “How did you hear?”
“Charleston’s small,” she said, as if that explained everything. “So what’s going on? I thought you were busy saving the world or whatever you do in D.C.”
“I’m on leave,” I said.
“Leave for what?”
“Personal reasons.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Personal like money?”
“No,” I said.
She smiled as if she didn’t believe me. “I’ve been exploring some investment opportunities. Real estate, small businesses. Could be a good time for family to help each other out.”
Before I could answer, the nurse walked in to check my IV. Natalie watched me like she expected me to crack. Not getting a response, she said she’d be back when I wasn’t so grumpy.
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