The first thing I remember after Colton hit me was not the pain.
It was the smell of the hospital.
Antiseptic sat in the air like bleach and rain, mixed with burnt coffee from the vending area and the sharp plastic scent of the oxygen tube against my cheek.
My shoulder felt wrong before I understood why.
My ribs tightened every time I breathed, one eye was swollen almost shut, and my arm was trapped in a sling that scratched softly against the side of my hospital gown.
My mother was crying into a paper cup.
My father stood behind her, both hands locked around the back of a plastic chair, his work jacket still dusted with sawdust from the garage where everything had happened.
