The mop fell.
During the drive, I could think only of our seventeen-year-old son, his basketball team’s captain, and whether he would still be alive when I arrived.
Laura stood trembling outside Trauma Bay Three. Behind the glass, Ethan lay pale and motionless, both legs wrapped in thick bandages.
His surgeon was Marcus, a man I had served beside years earlier. Recognizing his expression, I asked how badly Ethan was hurt.
Both knees had suffered devastating damage. He needed multiple operations, followed by months or more of rehabilitation, with no certainty about how much mobility he would recover.
“Who did this?”
Marcus checked the hallway before answering.
“Sheriff Vance.”
The sheriff’s influence reached throughout the county. He behaved as though his badge and connections placed him beyond consequences.
Inside the room, I held Ethan’s hand until he opened his eyes. Tears slipped down his cheeks.
