48 Hour Hold

February 2008 I could not go home. I signed a bunch of papers, trying to be as cooperative and composed as possible. I’d called the ambulance myself. The medics escorted me out of my office building, but I walked on my own two feet. I answered their questions coherently. Drank …

2008

Nine years ago, I died. Twenty-four years old. In a university office. With a nice job title. Six packets of off-brand Asprin on my desk. A montage of my favorite Facebook photos on loop in my head and guesses on which one they’d use on my funeral program. Frank Sinatra’s …