{"id":3311,"date":"2026-08-01T23:10:51","date_gmt":"2026-08-01T23:10:51","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/fresdailynews.com\/?p=3311"},"modified":"2026-08-01T23:10:51","modified_gmt":"2026-08-01T23:10:51","slug":"let-her-d-ie-save-her-brother-with-her-organs-my-mother-hissed-to-the-doctor","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/fresdailynews.com\/?p=3311","title":{"rendered":"Let her d\/\/ie. Save her brother with her organs,\u201d my mother hissed to the doctor."},"content":{"rendered":"
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The first thing I heard after the world shattered was not the reassuring hum of medical machinery, nor the urgent, commanding voice of a trauma surgeon.<\/p>\n

It was the sound of my mother deciding that my life was an acceptable loss.<\/p>\n

\u201cTake care of Cole first,\u201d Diane Hartwell said. Her voice floated from somewhere beyond the searing, blinding white of the surgical lights. It was terrifyingly calm. \u201cHe has his whole future ahead of him. Eliza\u2026 Eliza has always been the difficult one. And given the circumstances, perhaps it\u2019s for the best.\u201d<\/p>\n

I tried to open my eyes. Nothing happened.<\/p>\n

My body felt impossibly heavy, as though my veins had been drained and refilled with wet, setting concrete. A mechanical ventilator forced cool, sterile air into my crushed lungs. Rhythmic beeps echoed through the trauma room at Harbor Crest Medical Center in downtown Seattle, anchoring me to a reality I desperately wanted to escape.<\/p>\n

I could not speak. I could not move a single muscle.<\/p>\n

I am trapped in my own corpse, I thought, a cold dread coiling in my gut. I am trapped, and they are standing right there.<\/p>\n

\u201cIf my son needs a compatible donation, use whatever is medically possible from her,\u201d Diane continued, her tone as casual as if she were ordering a second glass of Chardonnay at her country club. \u201cShe would want him to survive. It\u2019s what she\u2019s here for.\u201d<\/p>\n

I wanted to scream. I wanted to tear the breathing tube from my throat and tell the room that I had never said such a thing.<\/p>\n

Then, my father, Victor Hartwell, spoke. His voice was lower, coated in that smooth, aristocratic veneer he used when closing hostile takeovers.<\/p>\n

\u201cDoctor,\u201d Victor said, and I could hear the soft rustle of his expensive wool suit. \u201cOur family has supported this hospital for years. We sit on the charity board. We can make another\u2026 generous contribution tonight. Unprecedented, even. But you need to focus your best people on Cole. As for my daughter, her injuries are clearly catastrophic. We do not want her to suffer. I am her medical proxy, and I am formally requesting a Do Not Resuscitate order. Let her go.\u201d<\/p>\n

For one terrible, suspended moment, the room was completely silent. The only sound was the hiss of the ventilator keeping me alive.<\/p>\n

He\u2019s killing me, the realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. They know. They know what Cole did, and they are finishing the job.<\/p>\n

For twenty-eight years, I had believed that if I just worked harder, gave more, and complained less, they might finally look at me the way they looked at my brother. I had paid the mortgage on their sprawling Bellevue estate when Victor\u2019s logistics firm took a hit. I had covered Cole\u2019s \u201coverdue loans\u201d twice. I had even drained my own retirement savings to help him open a private equity firm.<\/p>\n

It was never enough. I was never enough.<\/p>\n

\u201cBoth patients are alive, Mr. Hartwell,\u201d a male voice finally answered. The doctor sounded composed, but there was a sharp edge of disbelief clipping his words. \u201cWe will treat them according to triage protocols and medical need. We do not simply let stable patients expire, and I cannot accept a DNR for a patient who currently has strong vital signs. Money will not influence that decision.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou aren\u2019t listening to me, Doctor,\u201d Victor\u2019s voice dropped an octave, losing its warmth. It was the voice of a man accustomed to crushing opposition. \u201cThere are legal and financial complexities at play here. She is a danger to herself. To us. Do not resuscitate.\u201d<\/p>\n

A nurse gently lifted my left hand. I felt the soft graze of a sterile glove against my wrist as she checked my pulse.<\/p>\n

Now, I told myself. If you don\u2019t fight now, you die in this bed.<\/p>\n

I gathered every fragmented, agonizing ounce of energy left in my shattered nervous system. I focused entirely on my index finger. I forced the neurological connection through the fog of trauma and painkillers.<\/p>\n

Against the nurse\u2019s palm, I twitched my finger.<\/p>\n

Once.<\/p>\n

Then twice.<\/p>\n

Then three times.<\/p>\n

The nurse froze. I felt her fingers tighten around my wrist.<\/p>\n

At my forensic accounting firm, we were trained to use simple, discreet signals during high-risk field investigations or hostile audits. Three taps meant: Conscious. Unsafe. Document everything.<\/p>\n

I prayed she wasn\u2019t just a medical professional, but a human being who understood desperation. I forced the movement again. One. Two. Three.<\/p>\n

The nurse leaned down, her breath warm against my ear.<\/p>\n

\u201cI understand,\u201d she whispered. Her voice was barely a breath. \u201cI\u2019ve got you.\u201d<\/p>\n

Through the heavy slits of my eyelids, a tiny sliver of vision returned. I saw the blurred outline of her name badge: Monica Reed.<\/p>\n

Suddenly, Diane\u2019s sharp footsteps clicked across the linoleum. The sound grew louder, moving closer to my bed.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat is happening over there?\u201d my mother demanded, her voice laced with sudden, sharp paranoia. \u201cIs she waking up? Victor, look at her monitors. Why is her heart rate spiking?\u201d<\/p>\n

She knows, I panicked. She\u2019s coming to finish it herself.<\/p>\n

Monica Reed didn\u2019t flinch. As Diane\u2019s shadow fell over my bed, the nurse swiftly shifted her weight, using her own body to completely block my mother\u2019s view of my face and my twitching hand.<\/p>\n

\u201cHer airway is experiencing minor resistance, Mrs. Hartwell,\u201d Monica said loudly, her voice projecting artificial professional concern. She reached for the tubes near my face, pretending to adjust the ventilator settings while her other hand reached beneath the edge of the mattress. \u201cI need you to step back to maintain the sterile field. It\u2019s standard protocol.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cStep aside, nurse,\u201d Victor commanded, stepping up beside his wife. \u201cI have a right to see my daughter.\u201d<\/p>\n

I heard a soft, distinct click from beneath the bed railing.<\/p>\n

Monica had hit the internal panic button.<\/p>\n

\u201cSecurity and the attending chief have been paged,\u201d Monica said, her tone shifting from accommodating to an immovable wall of authority. \u201cUntil they arrive, neither of you will touch this patient.\u201d<\/p>\n

The standoff in the room was palpable. I could feel the violent energy radiating from my parents. This wasn\u2019t the grief of losing a child; this was the frantic panic of a cover-up falling apart.<\/p>\n

My mind violently pulled me backward, dragging me out of the hospital and back to the flooded lanes of Interstate 405 just two hours earlier.<\/p>\n

The rain had been biblical, turning the highway into a smeared canvas of red taillights and silver water. Cole had insisted on driving my car home from a corporate gala. I had offered to call a black car service, noticing the frantic, unblinking way he stared at his phone.<\/p>\n

He had refused. He locked the doors the moment I sat in the passenger seat.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou have to fix this, El,\u201d Cole had muttered, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. \u201cThe investors\u2026 they aren\u2019t just angry businessmen. They\u2019re bad people. You need to wire the eight hundred thousand tonight.\u201d<\/p>\n

I had stared at him, the cold realization finally settling over me. I worked as a senior forensic accountant for Apex Compliance, one of the most ruthless auditing firms in Seattle. For three months, I had been secretly digging into Cole\u2019s new equity fund. I had found the ghost accounts. The fabricated returns. The textbook markers of a massive Ponzi scheme.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m not doing it, Cole,\u201d I had said, my voice steady despite the shaking of my hands. \u201cThere is no equity. There are no returns. And worse\u2026 I found the guarantor documents.\u201d<\/p>\n

Cole had swerved sharply, the tires hydroplaning for a sickening second before catching the asphalt. He looked at me, his eyes wide and wild.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou used my digital authorization,\u201d I said, the betrayal tasting like ash in my mouth. \u201cYou forged my signature. You made me the primary guarantor for your fraudulent shell companies. When this collapses, I\u2019m the one going to federal prison.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt was a temporary measure!\u201d Cole screamed over the roar of the rain. \u201cI\u2019m a Hartwell! I can\u2019t go to jail, Eliza! You\u2019re just\u2026 you\u2019re you. You can take the hit. Mom and Dad already agreed to pay for your defense lawyers.\u201d<\/p>\n

The world had stopped spinning then. Mom and Dad knew. They had signed off on throwing me to the wolves to protect their golden boy.<\/p>\n

\u201cOn Monday,\u201d I had whispered, pulling my phone from my purse, \u201cI am turning my entire dossier over to the SEC and my firm.\u201d<\/p>\n

Cole\u2019s face twisted into something monstrous. \u201cYou would destroy your own family?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou are not my family,\u201d I replied.<\/p>\n

He lunged for my phone. I pulled it back. Cole didn\u2019t just grab for the device; he grabbed the steering wheel and violently yanked it to the right. He didn\u2019t hit the brakes. He accelerated.<\/p>\n

Through the storm, the massive steel grill of a delivery truck appeared out of the darkness. Cole had braced himself against the driver\u2019s side airbag, ensuring the passenger side\u2014my side\u2014took the devastating brunt of the impact.<\/p>\n

He hadn\u2019t been driving recklessly. He had been executing a premeditated execution.<\/p>\n

Back in the trauma room, the doors suddenly flew open with a heavy, metallic crash.<\/p>\n

\u201cHospital security,\u201d a deep voice barked. \u201cEveryone step away from the beds.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThank God,\u201d Victor sighed, slipping back into his aristocratic persona. \u201cOfficers, this nurse is being incredibly insubordinate and is interfering with my rights as a medical proxy\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSave it, Victor,\u201d a new voice cut through the sterile air.<\/p>\n

It was a woman\u2019s voice. It wasn\u2019t loud, but it possessed a terrifying, absolute authority that sucked all the oxygen out of the room.<\/p>\n

I heard Diane gasp. It was a sharp, pathetic sound of pure terror.<\/p>\n

\u201cExcuse me? Who do you think you are?\u201d Victor demanded, though his voice wavered.<\/p>\n

Heavy, confident footsteps crossed the room. I felt a shift in the air, a sudden warmth near my bedside.<\/p>\n

\u201cI think,\u201d the woman said softly, \u201cthat you are completely out of your depth.\u201d<\/p>\n

The woman stepped fully into the harsh, unforgiving glare of the hospital lights, and for the first time, my heavy eyelids managed to part just enough to truly see her.<\/p>\n

She wore a rain-soaked charcoal trench coat over a perfectly tailored midnight-blue suit. She appeared to be in her late fifties, with striking silver-brown hair pulled back into a severe, elegant twist. Her features were composed, seemingly carved from cold marble, but her eyes\u2014dark, deep, and piercing\u2014burned with a quiet, lethal fury that sucked all the oxygen out of the trauma room.<\/p>\n

Flanking her were not the standard, underpaid hospital security guards. These were two men in heavy tactical gear with federal badges clipped to their Kevlar vests, accompanied by a polished, grim-faced man holding a thick leather briefcase.<\/p>\n

\u201cMy name is Vivian Calder,\u201d the woman said. She didn\u2019t shout. She didn\u2019t have to. The sheer gravity of her voice demanded absolute submission. \u201cI am the CEO and Chairwoman of Calder Medical Group\u2014the conglomerate that owns Harbor Crest, along with thirty-two other medical facilities on the West Coast.\u201d<\/p>\n

Victor\u2019s aggressive, puffed-up posture instantly collapsed. The wealthy, untouchable Bellevue patriarch was suddenly just a pathetic old man in a damp wool suit.<\/p>\n

\u201cMs. Calder,\u201d Victor stammered, his voice dripping with a forced, slimy diplomacy that I had heard him use on cornered executives. \u201cThere has been a terrible misunderstanding tonight. My son and daughter were in a horrific crash. We are simply trying to navigate the emotional toll\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDo not speak to me,\u201d Vivian interrupted, her voice slicing through his pathetic excuses like a surgical scalpel. She turned her intense gaze to the attending doctor, who was visibly sweating. \u201cDoctor, what is the precise status of the patient in bed one?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cEliza Hartwell,\u201d the doctor replied quickly, stumbling over the syllables. \u201cMultiple rib fractures, a punctured left lung, severe blunt force trauma. We were preparing to stabilize and intubate\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe is a federal witness,\u201d Vivian stated, the words ricocheting off the sterile tiled walls like bullets. \u201cAnd the two people standing next to you just attempted to pressure you into a DNR to silence her regarding a fifty-million-dollar wire fraud investigation. That is attempted murder.\u201d<\/p>\n

Diane let out a choked, ugly sob. \u201cThat\u2026 that is a vicious lie! We love our daughter! We were trying to save her from a vegetative state!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou love your shield,\u201d Vivian corrected, her gaze slowly sweeping toward Diane. The hatred radiating from Vivian was so profound, so ancient, it made the room\u2019s temperature noticeably drop. \u201cOfficers, remove them from this ward. They are stripped of all medical proxy rights, effective immediately, per an emergency federal injunction.\u201d<\/p>\n

The polished man stepped forward, shoving a stack of legal documents into Victor\u2019s chest. \u201cOrder of a federal judge, Mr. Hartwell. You are barred from coming within five hundred feet of this patient.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou can\u2019t do this!\u201d Victor roared, his aristocratic facade finally shattering as a federal agent clamped a heavy hand onto his shoulder. \u201cShe is my flesh and blood! She is a Hartwell!\u201d<\/p>\n

Vivian Calder slowly unbuttoned her damp coat. She ignored him entirely, walking directly to the side of my bed. I felt her warm, surprisingly gentle hand cover my cold, trembling fingers. She reached into her pocket and pulled out something small, placing it softly on the white sheets beside my palm.<\/p>\n

A cold shockwave ripped through my paralyzed nervous system. It was a heavy, antique silver pendant, shaped like a sprawling cedar tree with one of its lower branches slightly bent.<\/p>\n

I wore an identical pendant. It had been around my neck since my earliest memories, a piece of \u201ccheap junk\u201d my parents refused to talk about.<\/p>\n

Vivian looked down at me, the iron mask of the ruthless CEO finally breaking. Her eyes pooled with twenty-eight years of unspeakable, suffocating grief.<\/p>\n

\u201cShe is not your flesh and blood, Victor,\u201d Vivian whispered, her voice vibrating with a terrifying blend of sorrow and rage as she stared into my eyes. \u201cShe is mine.\u201d<\/p>\n

The silence that followed her declaration was heavy enough to crush bone. The rhythmic hiss of my oxygen cannula was the only proof that time hadn\u2019t entirely stopped.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2026 I don\u2019t know what you\u2019re talking about, you lunatic,\u201d Diane stammered, retreating a clumsy step until her back hit the partition wall. Her eyes darted wildly around the room. \u201cShe\u2019s ours. We adopted her legally! We have the sealed paperwork!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLegally?\u201d Vivian laughed, a dry, hollow sound devoid of any warmth. She finally turned away from me to face the Hartwells. \u201cTwenty-eight years ago, you didn\u2019t adopt a child, Diane. You bought a medical supply.\u201d<\/p>\n

I felt my heart monitor spike, a frantic, piercing beep-beep-beep that betrayed the sheer horror blooming rapidly inside my crushed chest. Medical supply.<\/p>\n

\u201cI was nineteen years old,\u201d Vivian continued, her voice hardening, seamlessly transforming back into the apex predator who commanded empires. \u201cI was a single mother, working three agonizing shifts just to afford formula, living in a transitional shelter in Spokane. And you, Victor, with your infinite offshore accounts and your dying, pathetic son who desperately needed a bone marrow match\u2026 you found a corrupt broker. You targeted vulnerable women in the national registry. When you discovered my infant daughter was a perfect genetic match for Cole\u2019s rare leukemia, you didn\u2019t ask for a donation. You paid off the agency. You forged the abandonment papers. You stole her from her crib so you could have a permanent, captive donor living under your roof.\u201d<\/p>\n

Oh my god.<\/p>\n

The fragmented memories hit me like a physical assault, making my bruised ribs ache. The endless, sterile hospital visits when I was a toddler. The agonizing, marrow-draining procedures that my parents casually called \u201croutine check-ups.\u201d The way they only ever monitored my diet, my health, and my blood type, ensuring I was always pristine, always ready, while completely ignoring my mind, my passions, and my heart.<\/p>\n

I wasn\u2019t a daughter to them. I was a living, breathing organ bank for their precious golden boy. A farm.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt saved Cole\u2019s life!\u201d Victor snarled, violently abandoning the lie. His face flushed with an ugly, cornered defiance. \u201cWe gave her a spectacular home! Wealth! An Ivy League education! She would have been nothing but a statistic in the gutter with a street rat like you!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou gave her a gilded cage,\u201d Vivian countered, her voice dropping to a dangerous, lethal whisper. \u201cAnd tonight, when you realized your precious son had ruined his own life and dragged her down with him, you decided she had outlived her usefulness. You ordered a DNR.\u201d<\/p>\n

Through the thin partition wall of the trauma room, a sharp, metallic crash rang out. Someone had knocked over a heavy steel tray of surgical instruments in the adjacent bay.<\/p>\n

The bay where Cole was being treated.<\/p>\n

He was awake. He was listening to every single word.<\/p>\n

Vivian smiled, a slow, predatory curve of her lips. She slowly turned her head toward the partition. \u201cDid you hear that, Cole? Did you hear your beloved parents beg the doctors to murder your human shield? You\u2019re completely exposed now, little boy.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGet them out of my sight,\u201d Vivian ordered the federal agents, disgusted.<\/p>\n

Victor struggled, spitting empty threats of lawsuits and ruin, but the agents were merciless. They dragged the Bellevue patriarch and his weeping wife out of the trauma bay. Their desperate voices echoed down the sterile hallway until the heavy doors swung shut, cutting them off completely.<\/p>\n

Nurse Monica stood frozen by the monitors, a silent witness to the sudden, violent destruction of a dynasty.<\/p>\n

Vivian turned back to me. She pulled up a cold steel stool and sat beside my bed. She didn\u2019t try to hug me. She didn\u2019t force a manufactured motherly bond that had been violently severed three decades ago. She respected the fresh, bleeding trauma in my eyes.<\/p>\n

Instead, she gently picked up the silver cedar pendant and placed it securely into my palm, folding my limp fingers over the cool metal.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou do not have to believe me today,\u201d Vivian said, her voice impossibly soft, meant only for me. \u201cYou do not owe me trust, forgiveness, or even affection. But know this: you are safe now. And tomorrow, when you wake up properly\u2026\u201d Vivian\u2019s eyes darkened with a chilling, beautiful malice as she leaned closer. \u201c\u2026we are going to take absolutely everything they have left.\u201d<\/p>\n

I woke up twelve hours later in a private, heavily guarded VIP suite on the top floor of Harbor Crest.<\/p>\n

The suffocating ventilator was gone, replaced by a gentle oxygen cannula. The agonizing weight in my chest was manageable, dulled by a perfectly calibrated drip of medication. For the first time in my life, I felt the strange, terrifying sensation of being completely, unconditionally protected.<\/p>\n

Vivian was sitting near the expansive window overlooking the Seattle skyline. The gray morning rain beat against the glass. She was typing rapidly on a sleek laptop, but the moment I shifted, she closed it and stood up.<\/p>\n

\u201cWater?\u201d she asked simply.<\/p>\n

I nodded slowly. My throat felt like sandpaper. She poured a glass, holding a straw to my lips with a steady, practiced hand.<\/p>\n

\u201cThank you,\u201d I croaked, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe federal marshals have secured your financial dossiers,\u201d Vivian said, getting straight to business. I realized I liked that about her. No coddling. Just strategy. \u201cYour firm, Apex, is fully cooperating. Cole\u2019s accounts are frozen. The SEC raided his offices at dawn.\u201d<\/p>\n

I closed my eyes, a massive wave of relief washing over me. \u201cHe\u2026 he tried to kill me, Vivian.\u201d Saying her name felt strange, but \u2018Mother\u2019 felt impossible right now. She didn\u2019t seem to mind.<\/p>\n

\u201cI know,\u201d she said, her jaw tightening. \u201cHis injuries were superficial. A sprained wrist. A concussion. He staged the crash to ensure you took the impact. He is currently in police custody, crying in an interrogation room, begging for his parents.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cVictor and Diane?\u201d I asked, a bitter taste rising in my mouth.<\/p>\n

Vivian walked to the end of my bed. She picked up a thick manila folder and tossed it lightly onto my lap.<\/p>\n

\u201cVictor\u2019s logistics firm has been struggling for years, as you well know,\u201d Vivian said, her eyes gleaming with a ruthless intelligence. \u201cThey leveraged their Bellevue estate, their stock portfolios, and their charity board seats to secure the loans they funneled into Cole\u2019s fraudulent equity firm.\u201d<\/p>\n

I looked at the folder, putting the pieces together. \u201cThey\u2019re bankrupt.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWorse,\u201d Vivian corrected, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across her face. \u201cWhen the news of the SEC raid hit the wire this morning, their primary lenders panicked. They issued immediate margin calls. The Hartwells couldn\u2019t pay.\u201d<\/p>\n

She leaned over the bed, her presence magnetic and overwhelming.<\/p>\n

\u201cI spent the last twelve hours making some calls,\u201d Vivian whispered, her eyes shining with the vindication of a twenty-eight-year war. \u201cThrough a series of shell companies and private equity buyouts\u2026 Calder Medical Group just purchased every single ounce of the Hartwells\u2019 debt.\u201d<\/p>\n

I stared at her, my breath catching in my throat.<\/p>\n

\u201cI own their house. I own Victor\u2019s company. I own the loans Cole used to fund his pathetic Ponzi scheme,\u201d Vivian stated, her voice cold as ice. \u201cThey thought you were their property. They thought they could discard you. But now\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

She reached out and gently touched the silver cedar pendant resting on my collarbone.<\/p>\n

\u201cNow,\u201d Vivian said softly, \u201cthey belong to us. And I think it\u2019s only fair that the brilliant forensic accountant they tried to murder gets to decide exactly how we liquidate their lives. What do you say, Eliza? Are you ready to go to work?\u201d<\/p>\n

A slow, genuine smile cracked my bruised lips. The pain in my ribs flared, but it was eclipsed by a burning, incandescent fire in my chest. For twenty-eight years, I had been a pawn in a game I didn\u2019t know I was playing.<\/p>\n

But today, I was the one holding the board.<\/p>\n

\u201cShow me the ledgers,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

If you want more stories like this, or if you\u2019d like to share your thoughts about what you would have done in my situation, I\u2019d love to hear from you. Your perspective helps these stories reach more people, so don\u2019t be shy about commenting or sharing.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/article>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The first thing I heard after the world shattered was not the reassuring hum of medical machinery, nor the urgent, commanding voice of a trauma surgeon. It was the sound … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":1737,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[11],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3311","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-life-story"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/fresdailynews.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3311","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/fresdailynews.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/fresdailynews.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/fresdailynews.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/fresdailynews.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=3311"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/fresdailynews.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3311\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3312,"href":"https:\/\/fresdailynews.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3311\/revisions\/3312"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/fresdailynews.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/1737"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/fresdailynews.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=3311"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/fresdailynews.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=3311"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/fresdailynews.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=3311"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}