Collection 1: "Fine?" by Margaret Peterson Haddix

“Contrary to popular opinion,” the MRI technician says, “this is not a torture device, it was not invented by aliens, and it does not enable us to read your thoughts.”

“But you wouldn’t believe the questions I get. This won’t be a problem for you at all unless...you’re not claustrophobic, are you?”

The complaint “Mom” was usually so perfect at conveying Bailey’s thoughts.

Silly, she chides herself.

She can imagine people giving testimonials at her funeral: She was always so good, so kind to animals and people alike.

Her best friend, Allison, could reminisce, And if she found a spider indoors, she was always very careful about carrying it outside instead of killing it.

She smiles brightly at Bailey, and Bailey resists the urge to retort, “I’d rather dissect frogs than die.”

She remembers the exact moment she spoke the words: Sunlight had been streaming in the window behind Allison, grease was congealing on the school lunch tacos, all her friends were laughing.

Bailey’s room is in the main part of the hospital, not the pediatric wing, a fact that worries Bailey’s mom.

He’s a thin man with sallow skin and a dark braid hanging down his back.

“I have never done drugs.” She spaces the words out, trying to sound emphatic, but it comes out all wrong.

“Go on,” she says magnanimously. “I'll be fine.”

Dinner is some kind of meat covered in brown gravy, green beans blanched to a sickly gray, mashed potatoes that could pass for glue, gummy apples with a slab of soggy pie dough on top—food Bailey would never eat in a million years.

Meekly, Bailey puts check marks in little boxes.

You’re such a conscientious student.

She wants to say something to make the technician really see her, but the longer Bailey lies on the cold table in her hospital gown, the more she feels like all her personality is leaching away.

And on the other side, over the cliff into whatever her illness is, is more time in hospital beds, more technicians seeing her innards but not really seeing her, more time crying alone.

Bailey longs fervently for her normal life back.

“Hello?” someone calls tentatively.

“I’m Dr. Rogers, your neurologist,” he says.