His mom was screaming on the phone. I caught a few words.
“I’m not leaving.”
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“Accident.”
“Truck.”
“He can’t feel his legs.”
The hospital was filled with harsh lights and stale air.
He lay in a bed surrounded by rails and wires. Neck brace. Machines beeping. But his eyes were open.
I went home feeling numb.
“I’m here,” I told him, squeezing his hand. “I’m not leaving.”
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The doctor pulled his parents and me aside.
“Spinal cord injury,” he said. “Paralysis from the waist down. We don’t expect recovery.”
His mom sobbed. His dad kept his eyes on the floor.
I went home feeling numb.
“This is not what you need.”
My parents were waiting at the kitchen table like they were preparing for a negotiation.
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