{"id":5616,"date":"2026-09-09T12:23:15","date_gmt":"2026-09-09T12:23:15","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/?p=5616"},"modified":"2026-09-09T12:23:15","modified_gmt":"2026-09-09T12:23:15","slug":"i-had-a-high-fever-for-seven-days-my-husband-kept-saying-wait-till-tomorrow-so-i-called-a-cab-and-went-to-the-er-alone-during-the-exam-the-doctor-looked-at-my-ankle-and-froze-then-shouted","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/?p=5616","title":{"rendered":"I had a high fever for seven days. My husband kept saying wait till tomorrow, so I called a cab and went to the ER alone. During the exam, the doctor looked at my ankle and froze, then shouted: \u2018Call the police right away!\u2019"},"content":{"rendered":"

The human body is not designed to sustain a temperature of 104 degrees. At that threshold, reality begins to warp. The air in our bedroom felt thick, wet, and suffocating, like breathing through a heavy wool blanket. I lay tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, my teeth chattering so violently my jaw ached, staring at the ceiling of the condo I had purchased with my own money. \u201cI need the emergency room,\u201d I rasped, the words tearing at my parched throat. In the doorway of his home office, bathed in the cool, blue glow of his dual monitors, my husband, Tristan, sighed. It was the heavy, measured sigh of a man managing a hysterical child. \u201cYou\u2019re not in any immediate, life-threatening danger, Reese,\u201d he said, barely glancing away from his screen. \u201cIf it gets worse overnight, we\u2019ll go first thing in the morning. You know what the ER is like on a weekend. You\u2019ll sit in a hard plastic chair for six hours and come home more exhausted than you left.\u201d<\/p>\n

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\u201cTristan, this is day six. I feel like I\u2019m dying.\u201d \u201cI am watching you,\u201d he assured me, a patronizing edge creeping into his tone. \u201cIf I thought it was actually serious, I\u2019d take you. Let\u2019s just wait until tomorrow.\u201d I didn\u2019t answer him. With trembling, icy fingers, I peeled back the edge of the medical tape covering the scrape on my right heel. I stopped breathing. The skin was no longer simply red. It had morphed into a deep, necrotic, mottled plum color, marbled with terrifying streaks of pitch black. The flesh was radiating a sickening, swampy heat, stretched so taut across my ankle that it looked ready to split open. The corruption was visibly tracing the veins of my calf, climbing upward like a dark vine. I didn\u2019t argue anymore. The effort of standing made my vision swim with black spots, but a sudden, crystalline clarity pierced through the fever-haze. If I stayed in this apartment, waiting for my husband\u2019s permission to survive, I was going to leave it in a body bag.<\/p>\n

I waited until\u00a0<\/span>Tristan<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0put on his headset for a conference call. Then, clutching the wall for support, I limped to the front door and ordered an Uber.<\/span><\/p>\n

The ride to\u00a0<\/span>Toronto General Hospital<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0took exactly eleven minutes, though it felt like traversing a fractured dimension. I stumbled through the sliding glass doors of the ER. The triage nurse took one look at my flushed, sweating face, bypassed the waiting room entirely, and guided me straight to an exam bay.<\/span><\/p>\n

Minutes later, Dr.\u00a0<\/span>Mensah<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0swept into the room. She was a striking woman with intense, assessing eyes. She snapped on a pair of latex gloves and lifted my makeshift bandage.<\/span><\/p>\n

She looked at my inner ankle for no more than three seconds.<\/span><\/p>\n

She didn\u2019t hesitate. She didn\u2019t turn away. She spoke directly to the nurse over her shoulder in a crisp, unwavering command that sliced through the sterile air.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cCall the police. Right now.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I thought the fever had finally broken my mind. My ears roared with a deafening tinnitus. The fluorescent lights overhead flared like supernovas, and the linoleum floor seemed to tilt violently beneath me.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cPolice?\u201d I choked out.<\/span><\/p>\n

But the nurse was already sprinting toward the wall phone. Dr.\u00a0<\/span>Mensah<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0pressed her gloved hands firmly onto my shoulders, anchoring me to the earth. \u201cLook at me,\u00a0<\/span>Reese<\/span><\/strong>,\u201d she commanded, her voice a lifeline. \u201cStay still. Stay calm. Stay with me. We have you.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I had been burning alive for nearly a week, and the first person to tell me I was worth saving was a complete stranger in blue scrubs.<\/span><\/p>\n

The room erupted into controlled chaos. A second surgical consultant rushed in. The word\u00a0<\/span>necrotizing<\/span>\u00a0was thrown across the bed, and my background in environmental science translated it instantly: flesh-eating. Something inside my chest curled into a tight, freezing knot.<\/span><\/p>\n

As they shoved a surgical consent form into my trembling hands and wheeled my gurney toward the operating theater, the heavy doors swung open to reveal my mother,\u00a0<\/span>Joan<\/span><\/strong>. She had driven the agonizing stretch of the 401 from\u00a0<\/span>Kingston<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0in under three hours. I tried to reach for her, but the pre-operative sedatives were already dragging me down into a thick, suffocating darkness.<\/span><\/p>\n

As the anesthesia pulled me under, my boiling brain desperately searched for the origin point.\u00a0<\/span>Why the police?<\/span>\u00a0How did a thirty-three-year-old woman with a master\u2019s degree end up the victim of a deliberate, biological attack in her own bed?<\/span><\/p>\n

To understand the poison on my ankle, I had to understand the poison in my life.<\/span><\/p>\n

The trap was laid years before the fever took hold, built upon the deeply flawed architecture of my marriage.<\/span><\/p>\n

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I grew up in\u00a0<\/span>Kingston<\/span><\/strong>, Ontario, raised by a high school history teacher who spent his summers restoring an old cedar canoe, and a mother who spoke in quiet, complete sentences that landed harder than shouting ever could. When my father died, he left me the thing he loved most: a small, two-bedroom cottage on a lake in\u00a0<\/span>Muskoka<\/span><\/strong>. It wasn\u2019t grand, but it was mine. Entirely mine.<\/span><\/p>\n

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I met\u00a0<\/span>Tristan Foley<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0at a conservation fundraiser. He was charming, stable, and completely allergic to conflict. We dated, moved into my condo in the\u00a0<\/span>Annex<\/span><\/strong>, and married.<\/span><\/p>\n

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The night before my wedding, my mother sat with me on the back porch while fireflies flickered in the dark. \u201c<\/span>Reese, a good marriage is just two people who keep choosing each other,<\/span>\u201d she had warned me.\u00a0<\/span>\u201cWhen one of them stops, pay attention.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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I thought I understood her. I didn\u2019t.<\/span><\/p>\n

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For four years, I spent my marriage quietly dismantling my own spirit, swallowing my sentences, and making microscopic concessions to appease\u00a0<\/span>Tristan<\/span><\/strong>\u2018s mother,\u00a0<\/span>Pauline Foley<\/span><\/strong>.<\/span><\/p>\n

Pauline<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0was a widow who had raised\u00a0<\/span>Tristan<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0alone. I initially admired her grit, but I slowly learned that love and possession can look identical from the outside. Her son belonged to her; I was merely expected to fit into whatever time and emotional bandwidth she left behind.<\/span><\/p>\n

Our central conflict erupted in our third year, during a visit to a fertility clinic on\u00a0<\/span>Bloor Street<\/span><\/strong>. We had been struggling to conceive. My results were unremarkable.\u00a0<\/span>Tristan<\/span><\/strong>\u2019s tests, however, revealed a severely low sperm count and reduced motility. It was workable with treatment, but in the darkened cabin of our parked car that afternoon,\u00a0<\/span>Tristan<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0turned to me with a look of sheer panic.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t tell my mother,\u201d he pleaded. \u201cIf she asks, just say we\u2019re figuring out the timing. Don\u2019t tell her there\u2019s a problem on my end. You\u2019re a woman. You don\u2019t understand what this means for a man\u2019s pride.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I understood perfectly well. It meant that from that day forward, I would stand at every family barbecue, absorbing\u00a0<\/span>Pauline<\/span><\/strong>\u2018s loud, venomous remarks about \u201ccareer women waiting too long to have children,\u201d and I would stay silent. It meant my silence was being purchased to protect his ego.<\/span><\/p>\n

I agreed, because I believed it was partnership. I hadn\u2019t yet realized that some forms of love ask you to carry the entire world alone.<\/span><\/p>\n

It was within this fertile ground of calcified resentment that the true predator took root. His name was\u00a0<\/span>Stafford Hale<\/span><\/strong>.<\/span><\/p>\n

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I didn\u2019t know him. I didn\u2019t know he was an impeccably dressed con artist in his early sixties who preyed on proud, lonely widows at charity galas.\u00a0<\/span>Stafford<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0had seduced\u00a0<\/span>Pauline<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0into a phantom real estate partnership in the\u00a0<\/span>GTA<\/span><\/strong>. He delivered a swift, fraudulent return on her initial investment, hooking her completely, before slowly bleeding her dry through delayed payouts and demands for reinvestment to \u201ccrystallize\u201d her gains.<\/span><\/p>\n

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By the time\u00a0<\/span>Pauline<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0came to me, she was nearly $400,000 in debt to him.<\/span><\/p>\n

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She invited me to her\u00a0<\/span>Scarborough<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0home\u2014without\u00a0<\/span>Tristan<\/span><\/strong>\u2014and served me tea. She casually inquired about my\u00a0<\/span>Muskoka<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0cottage, asking if I\u2019d ever considered selling it. Then, the trap sprang.<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cI need one hundred and twenty thousand dollars as a loan,\u201d she announced.<\/span><\/p>\n

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I set my mug down. \u201cFor what,\u00a0<\/span>Pauline<\/span><\/strong>?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI have a business arrangement in progress. You don\u2019t need every microscopic detail. I am asking as family.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cFamily is precisely why I need to understand where this money is going,\u201d I replied, keeping my voice perfectly even. \u201cShow me the paperwork, and I\u2019ll review it. But I cannot move that kind of capital without knowing its purpose.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The silence in that kitchen was absolute zero. When\u00a0<\/span>Tristan<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0arrived,\u00a0<\/span>Pauline<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0immediately weaponized the interaction, framing me as a cruel, condescending snob who hoarded her wealth while her mother-in-law suffered.<\/span><\/p>\n

Tristan<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0didn\u2019t ask her for the paperwork. He smoothed it over. \u201cCould you have been a bit gentler with her?\u201d he asked me on the drive home.<\/span><\/p>\n

By refusing to be swindled, I became a direct obstacle to\u00a0<\/span>Stafford Hale<\/span><\/strong>\u2018s payday. And\u00a0<\/span>Pauline<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0settled into a hatred of me that had finally found its permanent shape.<\/span><\/p>\n

The execution of their plan required an opportunity. It arrived a month later when I flew to\u00a0<\/span>Vancouver<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0for an environmental policy conference.<\/span><\/p>\n

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I brought my junior associate,\u00a0<\/span>Zara<\/span><\/strong>, with me.\u00a0<\/span>Zara<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0was brilliant. I had personally advocated for her promotion and, the previous year, quietly lent her $8,000 for her mother\u2019s dental surgery. She had paid me back every cent, leaving a handwritten note of profound gratitude in my desk drawer.<\/span><\/p>\n

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On the second afternoon in\u00a0<\/span>Vancouver<\/span><\/strong>, during a walk along the seawall, I clumsily scraped the back of my right ankle against a rusted chain barrier. A shallow, stinging graze. Nothing more.<\/span><\/p>\n

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In the elevator back at the hotel,\u00a0<\/span>Zara<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0stared at my ankle with a strange, hyper-fixated intensity. She insisted on fetching supplies from the gift shop. When she returned, she crouched before me, meticulously examining the broken skin, asking exactly where the metal had bitten into my flesh.<\/span><\/p>\n

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We flew home to\u00a0<\/span>Toronto<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0on a Friday evening. My ankle was tender, but I brushed it off.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Two hours after\u00a0<\/span>Tristan<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0brought me home, the buzzer rang. It was\u00a0<\/span>Pauline<\/span><\/strong>.<\/span><\/p>\n

She stood in our entryway, wearing a chillingly placid smile. She claimed she\u2019d heard from\u00a0<\/span>Tristan<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0about my minor injury. Reaching into her handbag, she produced a small, unmarked glass jar.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cA friend in my building swears by this for skin abrasions,\u201d she purred, looking directly at my bandaged heel.<\/span><\/p>\n

Tristan<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0beamed from the kitchen doorway. \u201cSee?\u201d he said, his voice dripping with relief. \u201cShe looks after you. It\u2019s an olive branch,\u00a0<\/span>Reese<\/span><\/strong>.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Exhausted from years of trench warfare, I wanted to believe it. That night, sitting on the edge of my bed, I unscrewed the lid. The ointment smelled faintly metallic, a strange, clinical odor. But I rubbed a generous layer directly into the open scrape.<\/span><\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t know I was massaging a biological weapon into my bloodstream.<\/span><\/p>\n

I awoke in the ICU to the rhythmic hiss of a ventilator and an agony that defied language.<\/span><\/p>\n

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They had saved my leg, but barely. Dr.\u00a0<\/span>Mensah<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0explained that they had to surgically remove significant portions of necrotic tissue from my calf and ankle. A delay of even twelve more hours would have resulted in amputation, or death.<\/span><\/p>\n

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While I was unconscious, the reality of my life outside the hospital was violently unraveling.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Detective\u00a0<\/span>Aisha Bouchard<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0had been assigned to my bedside. She was methodical, unhurried, and deeply suspicious. She demanded to know exactly what had been applied to my wound.\u00a0<\/span>Tristan<\/span><\/strong>, stammering and pale, recounted the \u201cmiracle cream\u201d his mother had provided.<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cAnd where is this jar now, Mr. Foley?\u201d Detective\u00a0<\/span>Bouchard<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Tristan<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0rushed back to our condo to retrieve it. It was gone.<\/span><\/p>\n

That missing jar was the thread that unspooled the entire conspiracy. Detective\u00a0<\/span>Bouchard<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0subpoenaed the security footage from our building\u2019s lobby. The timestamps painted a damning portrait. At 11:40 PM on the night I took my solo Uber to the ER\u2014while\u00a0<\/span>Tristan<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0was asleep\u2014the front doors slid open.<\/span><\/p>\n

It was\u00a0<\/span>Zara<\/span><\/strong>.<\/span><\/p>\n

She used the secure keypad code I had entrusted her with years ago. She was inside my home for exactly nine minutes. When she exited, she was clutching a canvas tote bag she had not been carrying upon arrival.<\/span><\/p>\n

When\u00a0<\/span>Tristan<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0viewed that footage on the detective\u2019s tablet, his fragile, denial-soaked world shattered. Out of pure instinct, he drove straight to\u00a0<\/span>Scarborough<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0to confront his mother.<\/span><\/p>\n

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He showed\u00a0<\/span>Pauline<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0the video of herself arriving with the jar, and then the video of\u00a0<\/span>Zara<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0fleeing the scene.<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cWhat did you give her?\u201d he screamed.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Pauline<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0panicked. First, she vehemently denied giving me anything. Ten seconds later, she claimed she couldn\u2019t remember. Finally, cornered, she shrieked, \u201cIt was just a skin cream! That\u2019s all!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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Three contradictory statements in under two minutes. But the phrase\u00a0<\/span>\u2018just a cream\u2019<\/span>\u00a0proved she remembered the exchange perfectly.<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cHow did\u00a0<\/span>Zara<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0know about the scrape?\u201d\u00a0<\/span>Tristan<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0demanded. \u201c<\/span>Zara<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0was in\u00a0<\/span>Vancouver<\/span><\/strong>. How did she know?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Pauline<\/span><\/strong>\u2018s defiance crumbled into weeping silence. When\u00a0<\/span>Tristan<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0snatched her unlocked phone and scrolled through her call logs, he found one name repeated dozens of times:\u00a0<\/span>Stafford Hale<\/span><\/strong>.<\/span><\/p>\n

It took Detective\u00a0<\/span>Bouchard<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0one week to assemble the full, horrifying mosaic.<\/span><\/p>\n

She hauled\u00a0<\/span>Zara<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0into an interrogation room, slid a stack of decrypted text messages across the table, and waited. Forty seconds later,\u00a0<\/span>Zara<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0broke. She handed over a hidden USB drive and the glass jar she had failed to dispose of.<\/span><\/p>\n

Stafford Hale<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0had previously ensnared\u00a0<\/span>Zara<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0in a crypto-currency scam, leaving her $35,000 in debt to him. Instead of cash, he demanded information. Through\u00a0<\/span>Zara<\/span><\/strong>\u2018s workplace access and\u00a0<\/span>Pauline<\/span><\/strong>\u2018s bitter complaints,\u00a0<\/span>Stafford<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0had quietly cataloged my assets\u2014my condo, my salary, and my\u00a0<\/span>Muskoka<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0cottage.<\/span><\/p>\n

When I suffered that scrape,\u00a0<\/span>Zara<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0texted\u00a0<\/span>Stafford<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0the details, justifying it as harmless corporate espionage. She didn\u2019t know\u00a0<\/span>Stafford<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0had a background in biochemical procurement.<\/span><\/p>\n

Forensic analysis of the jar revealed a monstrous concoction. It was a base of commercial lotion laced with a caustic chemical irritant designed to break down the epidermis. Suspended within it was a concentrated, lab-cultivated strain of\u00a0<\/span>Streptococcus pyogenes<\/span>. It was engineered to bypass the surface, driving the bacteria deep into the fascial tissue, accelerating necrotizing fasciitis so rapidly that the victim would be septic before a doctor could diagnose the cause.<\/span><\/p>\n

Stafford Hale<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0was arrested at his luxury penthouse on a Tuesday morning. He was slapped with charges of massive financial fraud, aggravated assault, and conspiracy to commit grievous bodily harm.<\/span><\/p>\n

Pauline<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0was arrested the same afternoon. In her official police statement, dictated through her terrified defense attorney, she offered an excuse so vile it stopped the breath in my throat. She claimed she didn\u2019t know the cream was deadly. She claimed she only wanted to make me sick enough to put me in the hospital, forcing me to hand over financial control to her son.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI only intended to cause a temporary setback,\u201d<\/span>\u00a0her statement read.<\/span><\/p>\n

I lay in my hospital bed and read that phrase until the ink blurred.\u00a0<\/span>A temporary setback.<\/span>\u00a0It was the entire history of my marriage compressed into four words. All those years of being asked to yield, to speak more gently, to take up less space\u2014none of it was enough. So, she had decided to shrink me permanently.<\/span><\/p>\n

Tristan<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0came to the hospital every afternoon. He sat in the vinyl guest chair, looking like a man who had finally tabulated the true, catastrophic cost of choosing the path of least resistance.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Two weeks after my surgery, when I could sit upright, I looked at him. \u201cI need to speak,\u201d I said. \u201cAnd you are not going to interrupt me.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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He nodded, his eyes rimmed with red.<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cI don\u2019t believe you wanted me to die,\u00a0<\/span>Tristan<\/span><\/strong>,\u201d I began. \u201cBut for four years, every single time I needed you to stand by my side, you found a reason to cower in the middle. You let your mother blame me publicly for your infertility. You treated the abuse she hurled at me like it was a weather system\u2014impersonal, no one\u2019s fault.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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He began to cry, hiding his face in his hands.<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cWhen I was burning alive in our bed, telling you something was wrong, you told me to wait. Not because you are a monster, but because believing me meant you would be inconvenienced. It meant you would have to fight for me.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I took a deep, shuddering breath. \u201cLove without trust and respect is not a foundation. It is a trap. I cannot recover in the same space where I was dismantled. I want a divorce.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

He didn\u2019t argue. Perhaps that was the first honest thing he gave me in years: the respect of believing me when I told him something was finished.<\/span><\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t return to the condo in the\u00a0<\/span>Annex<\/span><\/strong>. My mother packed me into her car and drove me home to\u00a0<\/span>Kingston<\/span><\/strong>.<\/span><\/p>\n

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On my first evening home, she helped me out to the back porch. We sat side-by-side in the gathering dusk, watching the fireflies. She held my hand in the dark without uttering a single word. I looked past the garden, down the street where the dark expanse of the lake caught the dying embers of the sunset.<\/span><\/p>\n

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It was enough.<\/span><\/p>\n

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There are truths I hold in my bones now that I could never have named four years ago. I know now that the women who are most thoroughly eroded in this world are often the ones most fiercely committed to keeping the peace. We convince ourselves that maintaining peace is an act of love, even when the cost is our own survival.<\/span><\/p>\n

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I know that a fever that nearly takes your life can also be a crucible. If you survive the flames, it burns away everything that was never actually holding you together in the first place.<\/span><\/p>\n

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They thought a jar of cream and a web of lies could break me. They miscalculated one vital thing.<\/span><\/p>\n

Breaking me was never the same as finishing me. Tomorrow, I will drive up to my father\u2019s cottage in\u00a0<\/span>Muskoka<\/span><\/strong>. I will sit on the dock that tilts slightly to the left. And I will rebuild my life, entirely, unyieldingly, mine.<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The human body is not designed to sustain a temperature of 104 degrees. At that threshold, reality begins to warp. The air in our bedroom felt thick, wet, and suffocating, … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":3333,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[23,21,22,1,5,20],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-5616","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-aita","category-daily-article","category-reddit-stories","category-story","category-story-daily","category-viral-story"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5616","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=5616"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5616\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":5617,"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5616\/revisions\/5617"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/3333"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=5616"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=5616"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=5616"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}