"Someone's sobbing—'Kiki, sign! Sign now!'" "Kiki," my mother screamed. "Please, Kiki, the doctors said—" "Sign the form," the nurse said in a clipped voice that carried past the fluorescent lights. "We can't move to the OR without a proper consent." I blinked hard and swallowed air that tasted like metal and cleaner. "She's turning pale," my mother said. "Cheryl's losing blood. You have to—" "I can't," I said. My voice was small and sudden in the corridor. I tested it. It held. "You're the only next of kin on file," the nurse said. "Kiana, we need you to sign." "She did this to me," Mother wailed. "Don't make me lose both girls." "You can't say that here," someone hissed behind her. A relative shoved closer, forehead creased, hands trembling around a phone. Live feeds could put a wrong clip up and then everything would burn. I stepped back. My stomach flipped. I pictured the bright light of an operating theater and a name typed in a box that would let a scalpel cut someone else's life. I imagined a mother—my mother—pushing for an answer while someone she called her daughter wrote yes. "Please," Cheryl groaned from the open door. The sound cut through the noise sharper than any voice. "She's in pain," the surgeon's voice came from the doorway, calm but urgent. "General anesthesia, emergency cesarean. Consent first." I held the clipboard and the pen like