My brother leaned back in his chair with that familiar little smirk I had hated since childhood, looked across our crowded Thanksgiving table, and said, "Let's see if she's really allergic."

The waiting room of St. Jude's Memorial Hospital smelled of industrial disinfectant and stale coffee.

It was 8:30 PM on Thanksgiving night. The fluorescent lights overhead hummed with a low, maddening vibration. My parents sat on a vinyl couch near the corner. My mother was weeping softly, holding a paper cup of water my father had brought her, while Dad paced back and forth across the linoleum tiles like a caged animal.

Paige sat near the vending machines, staring blankly at her lap.

Aunt Denise had tried to sit near me when we arrived, but I had moved to a isolated chair near the exit doors without saying a word.

My pocket felt heavy. Trevor's phone was still inside it.

An hour after our arrival, an ER physician walked through the double doors. He took off his paper mask and looked around the room.

"Family of Trevor Vance?"

My parents bolted upright. "Yes! We're his parents!" my father exclaimed. "How is he?!"

"He’s stable," the doctor replied, taking a breath. "We administered a secondary dose of epinephrine, intravenous steroids, and antihistamines. His airway has cleared, but he experienced severe anaphylactic shock. We’re holding him in the step-down unit overnight for observation."

My mother let out a loud, shuddering gasp of relief, falling back onto the couch. "Thank God... thank God."

"Doctor," my father asked, his voice trembling. "How could this happen? Trevor has eaten seafood his entire life. He loves crab legs!"

The doctor frowned, pulling a chart toward his chest. "Adult-onset severe allergies are rare, but they do happen. However, given the extreme speed and severity of his reaction, he must have ingested a massive, highly concentrated dose of shellfish protein. Did he consume any raw extracts or purees?"

My father blinked, confused. "No... it was just a soup."

The doctor looked puzzled but nodded. "Well, whatever it was, it almost killed him. If someone hadn't administered prompt epinephrine at the scene, he would have suffered full respiratory arrest before the ambulance arrived."

The doctor turned his eyes toward me. "Are you the sister who used the EpiPen?"

"Yes," I said quietly.

"You saved your brother's life tonight," the doctor said firmly. "Another ninety seconds without that injection, and his heart would have stopped."

My father looked at me, tears streaming down his face. He stepped forward, reaching his arms out to pull me into a hug. "Maya... oh, thank God you were there. Thank God you had your medicine."

I stepped backward, out of his reach.

My father’s arms fell slowly to his sides. "Maya?"

"Don't touch me, Dad," I said.