It was a week before Christmas when everything cracked open.
I was on my bedroom floor wrapping presents when my phone rang. His mom’s voice hit my ear like a siren—screaming, sobbing, trying to form sentences.
I caught fragments.
“Accident.”
“Truck.”
“He can’t feel his legs.”
The hospital smelled like disinfectant and stale coffee. Everything was harsh—fluorescent lights, beeping machines, the metallic coldness of fear that sits in your mouth.
