My daughter is eleven. Her name is Hannah, and she has leaned on that crutch every single day for fourteen months.
I was at the front desk signing her discharge papers. I heard a crack behind me like somebody snapped a broomstick over a knee.
I turned around and there he was. Six foot four at least. Gray beard down to his chest. Leather vest, tattoos running from his knuckles up into his sleeves.
He had my daughter’s crutch across his thigh and he was pulling it apart with his bare hands.
I screamed at him. I actually screamed, right there in the lobby, in front of everyone.
The security guard started moving. A woman pulled her toddler behind her legs.
And then I heard my daughter laughing.
Not crying. Laughing. Doubled over in her chair with her hand over her mouth, laughing the way she used to laugh before the accident.
