The body was my old life.
Two suitcases stood open on the floor, half-zipped. My duffel bag sat beside my bed with my laptop case tucked against it. The shelves that had held twenty-two years of small, ignored trophies and certificates were empty. My closet was stripped down to wire hangers. On my desk, arranged exactly where I wanted them, were three printed documents.
The first was my acceptance letter to Johns Hopkins University.
The second was the full scholarship confirmation.
The third was my lease for a small apartment in Baltimore, along with my signed offer for a part-time research job at a pharmaceutical technology firm.
My father had always believed money was the final leash. If I stepped out of line, he could tug. If I talked back, he could threaten tuition. If I embarrassed the family, he could remind me who paid for my roof and my degree. Just twenty-four hours earlier, at our family dinner downstairs, he had used that exact threat.
