The hospital was cold, harsh, and smelled stale. Machines beeped steadily around him. He lay there with a brace around his neck, wires everywhere—but his eyes were open.
“I’m here,” I whispered, holding his hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”
A doctor later spoke to us quietly.
“Spinal cord damage,” he said. “He’s paralyzed from the waist down. Recovery is unlikely.”
His mother cried. His father said nothing.
I went home in a daze.
My parents were waiting at the table, as if preparing for a negotiation.
“Sit,” my mother said.
