“Your mother’s awake.”

That singular statement pounded through Ink’s mind like a sledgehammer, pounded through her doubt and despair, her nameless sorrow and grief. It made the ride quick and easy, so easy in fact that she largely forgot that Sugar Belle was right in front of her. And the news seemed to have placated the previously warring Apples, for neither Applejack nor Apple Bloom offered up a word of protest as Mac drove the five of them to the hospital.

She had turned on her phone in the car and had seen that Nurse Golding had called twice, while Mac had called almost a dozen times. A stab of guilt had nearly made her cry out as they had driven here, but that was in the past; she would apologize to Golding later, and then, yes, then, to Mac. But only later.

When they arrived, they came out in a colorful rush of energy, and bounded through the double doors. Sugar Belle lagged behind them. She was probably confused by what was going on, but had it in her character not to question, for any question would bother the four rushing individuals who had almost bowled over a hospital employee. They only stopped once: at the reception desk, to let the man there know they were here for Glory Quill.

“Go down the hall, first elevators on the left. Second floor is the ICU.” As if they needed directions. They thanked him, and a moment later, the five were crowding the elevator.

Ink’s mind was ablaze. Her mother was awake. She realized, suddenly, that it had been eleven days since that night; eleven days since her life was torn apart. Almost two weeks of waiting, and praying, and crying emptiness. All of that, gone, because her mother was awake.

What would she say? What should Ink say? “Hi, Mom, glad to see you’re awake again!” didn’t seem sufficient. How composed should she be? Was she to be quiet, so as to not overstimulate her mother? How long ago had she awoken? Were there any complications?

Her heart was racing even faster now. It was as though she was in the biggest marathon of her life. She could not afford to come second, to come anything less than first. Victory for Glory Quill—didn’t that have a nice ring to it?

She felt a hand grab hers. Looking down, she saw it was Big Mac. He glanced at her, and smiled; and her heart felt calm. So calm, in fact, that she didn’t see the look of surprise that glossed over Sugar Belle’s face.

The doors slid open. They stepped out and began making their way to the ward.

I never got to show her what I’d written. I should show her. But Ink didn’t have her laptop with her. Yet that didn’t stop her from entertaining the idea. She’d love it, I bet! Even though I haven’t written enough to complete it. That’s okay. I’ll show her it, and then—then everything will be all right.

The ward to the ICU approached. They passed the waiting room and slowed as they came through the brightly-lit entrance and always-open door. Ink heard the same, mechanical beeping; smelled the same ammonia; but there was something else in the ward, something new.

Voices. One of which was her mother’s.

They approached her room cautiously. Ink somehow ended up in front, pushed along by an invisible, beckoning force. They passed a few nurses, before finally entering the room.

Nurse Golding had been talking to a nurse when they had entered, and stopped to mark something down on a clipboard. She looked up when she heard them. Her smile was big and wide, blonde hair bouncing over her shoulders as she straightened. “Well, well, well. Look who it is!”

Ink said nothing, but she couldn’t contain her smile. Nurse Golding came over and embraced her. “How ya doing, girl?”

Ink mumbled a reply, then asked, “How is she?”

“Why don’t you take a look for yourself?” Nurse Golding walked to the side of the bed.

And there she was.

Ink could have cried, then. She was sitting up in her hospital gown, and though the wires coming from her head was a terrible sight, seeing and hearing her talking and speaking was a humongous blessing. They had shaved some of her hair away to make space for one of the conduits that blinked on her head like glittering Christmas lights, but she still looked as beautiful as ever. And she was smiling, too—smiling and talking and breathing fine, it seemed.

But she was thin. She had been fed nothing solid for those days, and now that showed. She was all skin and bones. Her complexion had paled to a ghostly, faded pink. This was her mother; but it was her mother, changed.

She lay in her bed, the bed sheets pulled up to her chest. She must have been terribly cold. Her lips were parted in a light smile, though it appeared sluggish, without energy. A breathing apparatus was inserted over her nose, and Ink could hear the ffssh as oxygen flowed.

Ink stared at her mother. Her mother stared back. The others waited.

Her mother shifted her gaze back to Nurse Golding. Her brows came together, then loosened. “Hello, Nurse Golding,” she said softly.

“Hiya, Glory. How do you feel?”

“Funny. Tired. Thirsty.”

“That’s perfectly normal, Glory. We’ll get you some water real soon. Do you know where you are?”

Glory Quill glanced around. Ink watched her eyes. They lingered a little too long in places. “A hospital?”

“Very good! Do you remember why?”

She frowned, scrunched her brow, then shook her head.

“You had an aneurysm, Mrs. Quill.”

“Who did?”

“You did. It was on Christmas Eve.”

Mrs. Quill stared at Nurse Golding, then nodded. It didn’t seem like she understood; she had nodded simply because it was a response. “I’m in a hospital?”

She was confused. Dazed. Ink felt funny in realizing that.

Nurse Golding spread an arm over to where the young girl stood, pointing to her. “Glory, you have some visitors.”

“I do? Visitors?” Then she said, “I’m in a hospital?”

“Yes, Glory. Visitors. You recognize them, don’t you? Or at least the one in front? Your daughter?”

Here it was: the moment of truth. Ink felt herself suck in a breath. Her entire body felt tense, like a coil wound up tightly. Would her worse fear come to life?

Ink’s mother stared at her. Ink took a step forward. Ink’s mother squinted. Paused. Breathed in, breathed out. She looked at Nurse Golding. “Hospital?” she said, her voice growing tired.

“Look at her, Glory. You recognize her, right?” Nurse Golding pointed again.

Ink’s voice bubbled out of her mouth, and burst so softly, like a baby’s soft cooing. “Mom?”

Her mother stared at her. Squinted. Widened her eyes. Squinted again.

“Do you recognize her?”

Silence. Ink could hear her heart beating in her ears.

Her mother leaned a bit forward, and Ink stepped forward, too, and they were so close, so close that it hurt to see her like this. Please, Mom, Ink cried. Please, remember.

“... I’m sorry, I don’t seem to recognize you. Who are you again?”

Her chest filled with cold dread. Suddenly she felt the world spin, and her mother became the ceiling, and the ceiling was rolling back. Something caught her. And then the room was gone.

Apple Bloom described it as “like you just watched yer baby gettin’ murdered right in front of ya,” an analogy that earned her a swift smack to the back of her head from Applejack. It was also an inaccurate one. It was so much worse than that.

They were back in the hospital waiting room again. The seats easily welcomed them, and Ink took her familiar spot by the window. Mac was next to her; next to him was Sugar Belle, who bore a look of utter perplexity. Belatedly, Ink realized Mac hadn’t told her anything of what had happened. By now, she was beginning to put the pieces together.

Mac was the one who had caught her before she fell, and he had been by her side while Nurse Golding tried to defuse the situation. “It’s the medication,” she said, “and the fact that her eyes aren’t as good as they used to be. She probably saw nothing but a blurry form.”

Plausible, sure; even reasonable. But when Ink looked back at her mother through the tears, she saw only the look of distant confusion, and that tore her heart in two. So she did not look at her mother any longer, and then they were taken into the waiting room to, well, wait.

Wait for what? Hadn’t Ink received her answer? What more torture could be thrown at her? How much more pain could she endure?

She stared out the window, still dwelling on what had happened. Was it really just her mother’s eyes and the medication? Perhaps it was also because Ink’s hair was longer. Perhaps she didn’t recognize her own daughter because the last she had seen of her, she had hair that was just touching her neck. Her reflection stared back, and suddenly, Ink was aware of her difference in appearance; she was haggard, worn-out, different. There wasn’t a spark in her eyes. She was different, and that scared her.

“Ink,” Mac said. But his voice was low and quiet and he said no more as he reached out and touched her shoulder. She didn’t respond to his touch.

It was later—much later, for now the moon was at its highest—that Ink finally spoke again. “I want to go home.”

But for her, she did not know where that truly was.

Sugar Belle had gone. Everyone else was asleep. Everyone, except for Ink.

Her fingers felt stiff and awkward as she touched the well-worn keys of her computer. The little light that flickered from the screen was like a supernatural veil, casting its glow on her face like a transparent blanket. Her story’s document was pulled up, but she found she could add no more words.

As opposed to before, when she could look at the screen and see all of the overwhelming possibilities, now all she saw was her mother in the bed, unable to recognize her own daughter. That scene played out in Ink’s mind; it was her story, now, not this shambling mess of letters and paragraphs. It was all she could focus on. It was all she should focus on, she thought.

She fell in love once. To date, the best line she had written. To date, the line that was like a magician’s illusion that had distracted her from the true difficulties of life. The last of the dream. Her dream.

There was no time for dreams now. Least of all dreams that were silly and stupid, born of some fantasy, that this girl could write anything moving. No, there was no time for such idiotic and moronic fantasies. Reality had set in, and Ink would be a fool not to follow it.

She stared at her writing for a moment. Then she felt consumed by an all-encompassing, swirling mess of hate and disgust. Such a stupid dream. Such a stupid project. She was stupid to have tried. There would be no time for it now, anyway.

She exited out of the word processor, and barely had a second thought as she dragged the file into the the recycling bin.

She went to bed afterwards. She dreamt of nothing.