Under Dad’s so-called “Scientific Parenting,” every word we said was judged by a Truth Band: green meant honesty, red meant a lie. Sam’s band was nothing more than a broken toy that stayed green forever, but mine tracked my heartbeat. Fear and pain would turn it red, and that was enough for Dad to label me a “born liar.” Then my appendix burst. I was in unbearable pain, my heart pounded, and the band flashed red over and over. Dad refused to believe me, mocked me, and shut me inside my room. I died there, alone in the darkness. Days later, when the house began to stink, he broke the door down. He even put the band on himself to prove I had been lying. ZAP—the shock struck him, and the red light kept blazing. At last, he learned the truth: those red flashes were never lies, but my calls for help. Dad broke down completely.