A week before Christmas, everything changed.
I was sitting on my bedroom floor wrapping gifts when the phone rang. It was his mother. She wasn’t speaking—she was screaming. Words broke through the panic.
Accident. Truck. Hospital.
I don’t remember how I got there. Just the lights. Too bright. The smell. Too sterile.
He was lying in the bed, surrounded by machines. His neck was supported, his body still. But his eyes were open.
“I’m here,” I said, grabbing his hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”
A doctor later pulled us aside. His voice was calm, practiced.
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